The Trials and Tribulations of Curly Shepard
by K. Nefertiti
Summary: Curly Shepard struggles with his own identity and the one crafted for him by his brother.
1. Epic Fail

**Disclaimer: The Queen of all, Miss Susie Hinton owns The Outsiders, for which I am eternally grateful. **

**A/N: I'm really excited for this one, guys. I'm welcome all comments, reviews and constructive criticism. This is just the prologue but I think it deserves to stand on it's own. Chapter 1 will be up shortly. Also: MAJOR THANKS to somebluedecember for her amazing beta reading.  
**

**This story is being posted as part of "Good Fic Day," an effort to raise the quality of writing here. We hope to encourage more writers to improve the quality of their own fan fiction - spell check, grammar check, keep the gang in character, outline, plot and don't use Mary Sues. Good fan fiction requires effort, and we would like to encourage other writers to rise to the challenge of producing better fan fiction, not only for our readers, but for S.E. Hinton, who created the wonderful book we are trying to honor.**

* * *

The world is a small daze as you stumble across the vacant lot to a small liquor store. It's located on the corner of Lewis and Marigold, just across from the town library that you've never visited.

You hold a crow bar loosely in your right hand, letting it dangle above the concrete. Clutched in your left fist you hold what is left from the beer that you managed to sneak out of the house while your mom and stepdad fought it out, again.

There is a slight chill in the air and you shiver, realizing that you forgot a jacket. But the cold doesn't last long as you bring the bottle to your lips and drink the rest in one giant gulp. The feeling of the alcohol spreads warmth throughout your body, from the edge of your fingertips to the bottom of your feet. The ground sways a moment and you toss your now empty bottle away in an attempt to stand upright. Once you have gathered your ground, you glance left, then right and dash across the street before anyone catches you.

The wind blows through your hair as if you were riding in the back of a pickup truck in the middle of a tornado. You feel deaf, barely able to hear your own thoughts as you make your way around back to a door illuminated with only a small light that is a gathering space for mosquitoes. Hoping to make the job a little easier you try to turn the knob, but it's locked. You sigh in frustration as you raise the crowbar to break open the glass window in the door.

It's a loud crash, and a light appears in the distance. In your rush to get in and out of the store, you drop the crowbar on the ground and thrust your hand inside the window to unlock the door from the inside.

"Fuck," you hiss, trying to keep your voice down as a searing pain makes it's way through your arm. You look at your hand, bewildered as you see red starting to drip off and onto the floor. The light above shines on your hand and the blood glistens in the glow. You don't usually get squeamish when you see blood, but the alcohol that is flowing through your body right now makes the image a little hard to comprehend.

"Shit." You realize that your right hand is actually cut open and this makes the job so much harder. But you've already come this far, and you promised Jimmy and Sam that you would bring the hard liquor for later tonight.

You notice a few more lights in the distance and ignore the pulse in your hand, instead reaching back through the window, careful to reach over the shattered glass and fiddle with the switch. After what seems to be the longest time, you manage to unlock the door and let yourself in.

It's pitch black, with no light except for the one outside that sheds a glow that barely passes over the threshold. The light is flickering, and you just know that any moment it's going to go out completely. Clutching a handful of your white t-shirt with your injured hand to staunch the bleeding, you run your left hand against the wall in desperate search for a light switch.

Then, in the distance you hear sirens, and your mind goes into overdrive as you forget about the light switch and stumble farther into the darkness to find the liquor. You pick up a couple bottles here and there, trying to forget that your hand is throbbing. Once you have four bottles tucked in your arms, you turn around, attempting to find the way back out. But the light has stopped working so that all you see is darkness and your heart starts beating faster.

"Shit, shit, shit," you mutter. As you start to walk in a random direction, you start to panic some more as blue and red lights begin to appear through the windows.

You contemplate just dropping the alcohol and running, but before you can make a decision, the sound of cop cars stopping outside of the store comes to your ears, and you stand still because you can't think of any other way out.

The cops barrel in, flipping on the light switch with ease, and you scowl because they were able to find the light so much easier than you. You squint as the light shines in your eyes and you raise your arms to block the brightness, the bottles dropping to the floor with a crash. The strong smell of liquor suddenly makes you want to hurl and you can feel the liquid seeping into your old shoes that have been worn through the bottom.

"Freeze!" the cop yells, and for some reason - even though the alcohol is starting to wear off - the command propels you to run in the opposite direction. You don't get far before someone blocks your path and slams you onto the countertop, pulling your arms behind your back and cuffing them roughly. He pats you down, and pulls out your switchblade from your back pocket.

"Charles Shepard," the policeman says with a disheartened tone. "You ever going to get straight, son?"

You don't really know what to say to that, so you keep your mouth shut. The cop grabs the back of your collar and then pushes you outside to the two cop cars that are illuminating the street with blue and red lights.

"Get in," the cop mutters, putting his hand on your head and pushing you into the car.

Inside the car, you attempt to get comfortable, but it's difficult. The gash on your hand is starting to burn, but you can't get a look at it on the count that your hands are cuffed. You sigh and lean your head back, staring at the red and blue lights flashing in the dark night.


	2. Shut Down

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Outsiders.**

**A/N: Deds to somebluedecember for beta-reading.  
**

* * *

The bunk is hard, but you attempt to get comfortable. The alcohol has completely worn off now, and you vaguely wonder about what Jimmy and Sam must be thinking as they wait for you to show up with the liquor.

"Goin' take me on? Yeah, yeah, I'mma big man. No you ain't." The drunk in the corner freezes, and then starts swinging at the empty air. He's been talking to himself for the past hour, reliving the bar fight from which he was picked up. At first, you thought it was somewhat entertaining, but now - since it's nearing four in the morning - you just wish he would shut up so that you can get some sleep before you are released in a few hours.

"Ahhh!" He grabs the bars of the cell and attempts to shake them. "You can't beat me!"

"Shut the hell up!" You chuck a pillow at the man, completely frustrated with his antics. It seems that whenever you are dragged into the cooler there is always a crazy guy waiting for you.

The hobo stops for a minute, and looks at you as if he has just realized that you were in the cell with him. "Jack?" he asks.

"No." You give him a look. "Now shut up." Hopefully he'll take your advice and sit down like a normal person. But of course, like always, things don't go your way.

"Jack," the man repeats, this time with anger. He starts to stumble to you, his arms stretched out and for a split second you almost want to laugh because he looks like a man from one of those zombie movies that you saw at the drive-in.

"Jack!" He roars this time, as he attempts to take a swing at you.

But he's drunk and you're sober. He is an insane old man and you are a young, aggressive teenager. His head is filled with rambling thoughts and you've never thought so clearly.

You dodge the first and the second swing, and while he tries to regain his composure, you take your chance and sock him one right in the nose. He brings his hands up to his face, and you aim another punch at his stomach. He cries out, but you don't stop.

"Hey! Stop!" He holds up his hands, but all you are thinking is that he has been shouting to himself for the past two hours and he was the one who took the first swing. You slug him across the head, and he falls to the ground and curls up in a fetal position.

You take advantage of his vulnerability and kick at his ribs, feeling a sense of satisfaction each time he wails as your boots connect with his ribs.

You don't even realize that the cops have entered the cell until they are shoving you against the wall. Despite being restrained, you smirk as some other cops bend down to help the man who is now sputtering, spitting blood as he mumbles to himself frantically.

"God, Shepard. Can't you go one night without causing trouble?" The cop shakes his head in disgust.

"He was annoying me, man," you try to explain. But no one listens and you are dragged out of the cell and into the basement, where you are given your own eight by eight room in solitary confinement.

"Shit," you mutter, earning yourself a slap on the head by the cop pushing you towards to door.

"Don't curse."

You come to a door, and the burly policeman unlocks it. The door opens, and you see a small room, furnished only with a bed in the corner. The cop behind you starts to propel you forward, but you stand still, refusing to walk forward.

"C'mon, Shepard. Go in." The cop tries to urge you in again, but you still don't move.

"What, Shepard? Scared of solitary confinement?" The cop laughs, and then gives you a harsh shove, forcing you into the room. The cuffs are quickly removed and before you can turn around to escape, the door slams shut and the small window slot is closed, leaving you alone in the small room.

You turn around, taking deep, steady breaths to calm your nerves. But it doesn't help, and the walls start to close in, and you feel trapped. Your hands start to feel clammy, and your heart starts racing. You back up, flinching when you connect with the back wall.

Closing your eyes, you imagine that you aren't stuck inside a small room, that you are at the drag races on an open field. A sharp pain then erupts from your hand and you look down, opening your fist that you didn't even realize you had clenched. Blood is starting to seep from the wound, which has turned into a gaping gash in your hand. Early signs of infection have started to arise, and you feel light headed. The world starts to blur, and before you understand what is happening, you feel your eyes roll into the back of your head, feel the ground shift beneath your feet and the room goes black.

OOOOO

You don't know how long you've been stuck in the room when the door opens, and the burly policeman comes in with a pair of cuffs held in his hand.

"C'mon, Shepard. You've got a date with the judge," he says, beckoning you with his fingers when you don't get up.

"The judge? Why?"

He gives you a look. "You're being charged. I don't know with what, but you've got to come with us to see how long you're going to be put away."

You stare at the cop, not moving. Your body is so tired, and a slight fever numbs your brain. The policeman sighs, then comes over to you and grabs your forearm. After you've been restrained, you are guided outside the door and down the hallway.

"What did you do to your hand, Shepard?" the cop asks as you walk down the hallway.

"Scratched it," you mumble.

He laughs. "Looks like more than a scratch to me."

You don't have anything to say in response, so you keep quiet.

The gray interior of the jailhouse turns to brown walls and a marble floor as you enter the courthouse. You are led to a giant set of mahogany doors, and they open as if you are the leader of a royal procession.

The few people sitting in the seats turn to look at you as you enter, but the judge continues on with the arraignment of the person in front of him.

Briefly scanning the crowd, you freeze for a moment when you see Tim sitting near the back, his arms crossed across his chest, frowning as if he has better things to do than find out how long his younger brother is going to be put away for. You lock eyes with him for a few seconds before the policeman urges you forward.

The sound of a gavel startles you out of your thoughts and then you realize that you are at the stand.

"People versus Charles Jonah Shepard," the stern lawyer announces as he takes your file - which you notice is larger than most of the files sitting on the desk - and hands it to the judge.

"Charges?" the judge asks, not bothering to look up.

"Breaking and entering, attempted robbery, underage intoxication, possession of a weapon and assault," the lawyer reads off with a look of disgust on his face.

You can't help but give a small smile at the list of crimes that you committed in one night. The judge notices and frowns. "You find this funny, young man?" he asks. _Hell, yeah, fucker. I think this is hilarious._

"No, sir," you answer calmly.

"How do you plead?"

"Guilty," you answer.

The judge pours over your records, moving through the thick file, flipping through pages of writings detailing past criminal offenses that you have committed.

"Based on your record, and the incident involving the homeless man while you were in jail, as well as the fact that you find this whole charade amusing, I'm convinced that you are a menace to society and do not belong on the streets." His words are heavy and filled with hate as he glares as you from his perch behind the desk. "I'm sentencing you to six months in the reformatory, beginning immediately."

The gavel slams down again, and the sound echoes throughout the hall. _Damn it,_ you think. _Six fuckin' months. _The policeman pulls on your arm to take you a room where you will wait for a bus to haul your ass to the reformatory. But before you're pulled through the doors exiting the courtroom you look around in hopes of seeing Tim one last time before you're led out of the room. You wonder if he is proud, worried or angry about your sentence.

But it doesn't matter, because all you can see is his curly black hair as he leaves out the mahogany doors, not even sparing you a glance.


	3. New Home

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders**

**A/N: Many thanks to somebluedecember for beta, and please review!  
**

* * *

When the bus finally drops you off at the reformatory there is someone waiting for you. He seems younger than most cops that you have met in the reformatory and you wonder how he ended up here.

"Charles Shepard?" he asks, even though you are the only person standing before him.

"Curly." You hate it when people call you Charles. It sounds like a pansy and you had gotten rid of the name as soon as possible. When you were younger your mom would use it to make you mad but other than that you've been Curly since you could remember.

"My name is Harvey. I'm the guard in charge of your cellblock. Once we get inside I'm going to get one of the boys to show you around. Just keep in mind though, any discipline issues go through me, all right?"

"Yeah," you mumble. You've done stints in the reformatory before; it's nothing new.

The doors open with a police officer on each side, watching you with careful eyes. As you step onto the tiled floor, you turn around and look at the landscape, where the sun sits on the horizon creating an orange-ish hue in the sky. You wait until Harvey comes up to your side and pulls on your arm. "C'mon, Curly."

You are shocked that he uses the name you prefer, expecting him to just call you 'Shepard' or 'Charles' to be smart.

"You're not like other cops," you say warily.

"I was in the reformatory once. Long time ago. Then, I got on the right track and now I try to help kids like you." His answer is simple and you find yourself curious.

"What were you in juvie for?"

"Okay." He deliberately avoids the question as you come to a door that he unlocks before gesturing you inside. "You have seven sets of clothes, including the shirt and pants that you are wearing right now. The other sets, along with your blanket and pillow, are on your bed."

The inside of the office is small and neat. On the opposite side of the door is a wall of glass where you can see other boys your age sitting around, talking, smoking and acting tough. Harvey walks over to the door leading to the cellblock and opens it up, calling out into the prison.

"Robertson!"

A slightly older boy with brown hair greased back and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, comes out of the crowd._ 'Looks 'bout my age. Wonder what he's in for?_

"Hey, Harvey," the boy answers as he walks up to the office. He catches your eye and gives you a nod in greeting.

Harvey gestures to you. "This is Curly Shepard. He's here for six months and rooming with Billy. Show him to his room, will ya? And give him the lowdown, 'kay?" Harvey talks like he's one of the boys. After a nod of agreement from the kid, Harvey backs up and points out the door.

"Welcome home, kid," Harvey says softly as you walk past him, following the guy who is supposed to show you around the place. You give Harvey a quick look, confused. Unlike most cops who keep watch over juvenile delinquents, Harvey's greeting isn't made out of mocking. It sounds like he is disheartened, like he has seen too many kids walk through that office door.

Once the door behind you closes, the brown-haired boy turns around and looks at you.

"Shepard, huh? Related to Tim Shepard?"

You stuff your hands in your pockets and hold your head up high. "Yeah," you mention coolly, but inside you are steaming with pride. Your big brother is known throughout reformatories across the county, even though he's an adult now.

"Cool, man. Dennis Robertson, possession. You?"

You say your name and then list the five offenses that you committed, and Dennis's surprise is evident by the end. You smirk. _That's right, Tim Shepard's legacy. _

"Wow," he says, smiling as if he approves. "Youse a real hood, man." He shakes your hand then guides you to your cell.

The door is open, and there is a dark haired boy sitting at the desks, playing with a radio, tweaking the wires and fiddling with the knobs. When you walk in, he looks up, gives you the once over and introduces himself.

"Billy Marshall," he says with a grin. You nod and give your name again.

"How long you in for?" you ask. If this guy is going to be your roommate, you figure, you should at least know if he is going to be your roommate for your whole stay.

"A while. Can't wait to get out, even though the old lady is probably just going to kick me out on the streets as soon as I land on her doorstep. What about you? You related to Tim Shepard?"

"Yup." You can't help the feeling of euphoria that flows through your voice and you forget that he didn't actually answer your question. You move to drop the scratchy quilt and flimsy pillow on the lower bunk. Sighing loudly, you drop down on the bunk and pull out a cigarette from the pack in your back pocket. You place it between your lips, and then frown as you pat your pants, hoping to come up with a lighter but finding none. Then, out of nowhere a set of matches lands on your chest and you look over at Billy who grins then goes back to his radio.

"Thanks," you mumble through the cigarette in your mouth. You light the smoke and take a deep breath, letting the smoke fill your lungs.

"Heard there was a new kid on the block." A loud, obnoxious voice fills the air as the door slams all the way open, and the sound echoes across the small room. A blond-haired teenager walks in, a smirk on his face.

"Tony, go away." Billy sighs.

"I'm sorry, Marshall, were we talking to you?"

You watch this exchange quietly. Tony and the other guy who followed him in walk up to Billy, almost cornering him in his seat. You watch Billy try to save face and act indifferent, but you can tell that these guys worry him.

After a long stare down, Tony turns away and focuses his attention on you. "So, newbie, first time in the reformatory?"

_For real?_ You wonder if this guy knows who your brother is. He looks tuff, but he could be a total idiot like Jimmy.

"His brother is Tim Shepard, you know," Billy brings up.

Tony's eyes turn hard but you keep an even stare.

"Tim Shepard, huh?"

Uh-oh, you know that tone of voice. With the other guy in the background, his arms crossed across his chest in a bodyguard-esque manner, you start to worry.

"My older brother was put away by Tim Shepard." Tony spits out your brother's name with disgust. "That's right, Al Parker."

Shit, you remember that name from about six months ago. It was a deal involving cars and a little bit of weed on the side and some shit when down. You don't know the details since Tim didn't bring you along. All you know is that when Tim and Sam returned home Sam had a black eye and a bloody nose and Tim had three broken ribs.

But, you're Tim's younger brother, so you hold face.

"Well, what do you want me to do about it?"

Tony's eyebrows rise, and you can't decide if he looks pissed or surprised. Billy stops fiddling with the radio and turns around in his chair to look at you. You stick the cigarette back in your mouth and stand up. You're about as tall as Tony is.

Billy's chair scraps in the background, but you don't break your stare with Tony. After a few seconds of deliberation, he furrows his eyebrows to deliver a nasty glare, then turns away to leave out the door, his friend following behind him.

"Shit," Billy drawls before reaching across his desk to pull out his own package of cigarettes and grabbing one for himself. As he cups his hands around his mouth to light it, he mumbles, "You had to piss off Tony, huh?"

You keep staring at the door, the cancer stick dimming away in your hand. You take a drag, and then exhale heavily. "What's with him?"

Billy shrugs his shoulders. "I dunno. Maybe his momma didn't hug him enough when he was a kid or something?" He sits back down, propping his feet up on his desk, the radio forgotten.

You smirk. "Yeah, probably. What's he in for?"

Billy stops working and turns around, looking like he is unsure how to answer the question. He turns his pack of cigarettes over in his hands, before pulling one out for himself. He hasn't answered you yet, and now you really want to know.

You press him for response. "Well?"

"Look," Billy mumbles. "Tony Parker is a grade-A asshole, and that's all you need to know."

"Fine, don't tell me." You are a little frustrated that this is the second time you haven't gotten a straight answer out of Billy. "Whatever it is though, I ain't afraid of him."

Billy gives a small grin and turns back to his radio. "Okay, Curly."

The excitement of a fight is gone from the room and you sit back down on the bed, taking one last drag before stubbing the cigarette out on the cold floor. You lean back, placing one hand behind your head and the other on your stomach, taking deep breaths. It's been a long day and you're tired. Billy seems to sense this and pulls down his feet, going back to work on his radio.

You start from the beginning of the day, thinking about waking up in solitary confinement, then being pulled along to the judge, managing to get a glance of your older brother before you were brought to a bus to take you to this hellhole. The list keeps going, and before you know it, your eyes close and you fall asleep.

**OOOOO**

"Curly!"

The loud voice startles you, along with a carton of cigarettes that hits you in the head as you wake up, disorientated from your nap. You look over and see Billy standing, grabbing another carton of cigarettes from a short red-haired boy at the door of your cells. He grins.

"My treat. Think of it like a homecoming present." Billy turns back around, shaking hands with the red-haired boy before walking over to the bed and stuffing the carton underneath the mattress. Grinning, you grab a smoke from the carton, using Billy's lighter. You can already tell that Billy is going to be a great roommate - as far as roommates in the slammer go. He looks down at you.

"Dinner is in five. I recommend that you get up unless you want to starve for the night. And I ain't gonna be nice if your stomach keeps me up all night."

It's only been a couple hours that you have been in the reformatory, but you are already starving. Even though you know the food doesn't taste nearly as good as what Angela can make, you're still looking forward to dinner. Bones aching, you stretch your arms above your head before you stand up, using the bed rail for support. You rub your back.

"Man, I totally forgot how shitty these mattresses are," you say, grinning.

Billy slaps you on your back. "C'mon, man."

The two of you walk outside of the cell, closing the door behind you. As you walk towards the mess hall, you gather the looks that you receive from the other boys, eager to get a look at Tim Shepard's younger brother. You try to get a rough feel for the other guys in the cooler with you, and don't realize until it's too late when you run into someone.

You look up; it's Tony. He's grinning like a bobcat at you and you feel uneasy, though you push that feeling to the back of your mind. "Out of my way, Tony," you mumble, and push past him.

There is some muttering in the crowd - because you obviously just messed with the top dog in the cooler - but Tony doesn't react and you wonder how he is going to get you back later.

In the mess hall, you wait in line, holding the blue tray with one hand, the other deep in your pocket. You grimace as you look at the slop on your plate - brown beans, mash potatoes and something that vaguely resembles chicken. Saying no to the offer of green beans - you never liked the green vegetables - you grab two orange juices and a roll before following Billy to a table where Dennis and two other boys are sitting.

"Shepard." Dennis nods. "Heard you got in a tussle with Tony earlier."

"Yeah, one of the downsides to being Tim Shepard's younger brother." You make sure to say that point clearly. "I've got to deal with some of the messes that he leaves behind."

You know Tony is nearby, and you know that he heard you. But it's still a surprise when you take a sip from your orange juice and suddenly it's all over your face and shirt. You wipe the drink off of your face with your arm and turn around to see Tony - with an evil smile on his face - looking down at you. The rest of the cafeteria is somewhat quiet, but noise starts back up again when Tony walks away and takes a seat at a table across the hall and starts talking to some of his buddies.

"You sure know how to pick them, Curly." Billy smiles, leaning back in his chair.

You smirk. "It's just orange juice." And you return to your meal knowing that if this is all Tony's got, then he's messing with the wrong greaser.


	4. Old Memories

**Disclaimer: The Outsiders belong to the fabulous S. E. Hinton. I'm just playing around with the characters - I'll put them back when I'm done.**

**A/N: As always, please leave your comments - constructive criticism is loved. Muchas gracias to somebluedecember for her awesome beta-reading.**

* * *

You shift over to your other side, trying hard not to wake Billy. The first night in the reformatory is always the hardest, and you have trouble falling asleep even though you had easily taken a nap earlier.

You finally flip onto your back and acknowledge the fact that you are not going to get to sleep for a while. You stare up at the underside of Billy's bunk above you, listening to his deep breathing while you wish you could just fall asleep.

Thoughts of Tim sneak into your head. You think back to the courthouse earlier that day when he had sat in the back corner of the room, his arms across his chest with a foul look on his face. You think back to how you had tried to get a better look at him, and when he had turned his gaze upon you, you had been forced to move.

You think back to when Tim had formed the Shepard gang. It was nearly six years ago when Tim was thirteen and you were nine. For a couple months some of the kids from your neighborhood had been getting jumped. While it had bothered you and Tim, neither one of you did anything about it.

It was at the beginning of the summer, the second week in June of 1960 when Tim refused to sit around any longer. You remember that afternoon all too clearly.

_The trees are green and the air is warm, not hot or cold. School had just gotten out and you are officially done with the third grade. It's a great feeling as you walk down the sidewalk towards the small house where you live with your family._

_You're about halfway home when you notice a white Chevy Bel-Air following you down the road. It's going too slow for it to be just passing, and it creeps behind you. You quicken your pace, and the car picks up, but just slightly._

_Your heart beating faster, you start looking for a way out, or wishing that your house wasn't so far from school. Walking quickly, you notice that the park is only half a block away. When you finally get to the park, you make your way to the center of it, knowing that they can't drive off the road. _

_But they do, and the tires make a lurching sound as the car jumps the curb and starts driving on the grass. You don't know what to do so you just keep walking, hoping that they will just leave you alone. Deep down, however, you know that this won't be the case._

_The car finally pulls up alongside you and comes to stop. Four older teenagers get out, each one with a meaner smile that the last. _

"_Hey, kid," the meanest-looking guy says. He walks up, his boots making a clunking noise as each step brings him closer to you._

_You back up, gulping. Even though you try to fool yourself by just saying that they are here to talk, you know that they are going to jump you. You think about how even Sam, Tim's best friend who is one of the strongest kids you know, was shaken after he had been jumped. _

"_You walking on our territory, kid?" the big guy asks again. He has short blond hair and is wearing a blue plaid shirt that is unbuttoned, showing a white wife-beater underneath. _

"_N-no," you stammer, cursing yourself for showing some sort of weakness. You know guys like these guys prey on weakness and you don't want to show any._

_Two of the guys behind him suddenly rush up and grab your arms. They hold you tight while the blond-haired kid next to him smiles darkly. _

"_I think you are, kid. And you know, you have to let us know when your walking on our territory, otherwise we might think you were a spy or something, y'know?"_

"_I'm not a spy, I swear!"_

"_Really?" He looks shocked and backs up a few steps. You sigh in relief thinking that he is going to let you go when he suddenly brings his arm back and punches you in the stomach. _

_You double over, coughing, while the other kids laugh. The blond teenager bends over so that he can look you in the eye._

"_That's what they all say, kiddo." He grabs some of your hair and pulls it back so that the sun is shining in your eyes. _

_He punches you again, and you swear to God it hurts so much. _

_After that you start to lose track of how many times you get punched. When they let you fall to the ground and you can't get back up, you feel their steel-toed boots in your ribs, and you bring your arms up to feebly block them. After what seems like an eternity, the kicking stops and the four boys walk back to the car, leaving you in a crumpled heap on the dark, cool grass._

_You vaguely remember watching the car take off, wishing that Tim was there to save you, until the bright sunny day fades to darkness._

_When you wake up again, someone is patting your face, saying your name over and over again. _

"_Curly, Curly. C'mon kid, wake up," the voice says. You slowly open your eyes and see a mess of red hair. _

"_Sam?" you ask._

"_Yeah, kid, c'mon. We gotta get you back home so we can meet up with Tim. He's got us all out looking for you."_

"_Tim? What?" You are really confused. Tim always gets home after you, since he's in high school. You don't understand why he would be out looking for you either; school just got out, right?_

"_It's six o'clock. You were supposed to be home two and a half hours ago. After two hours, Tim got us all to go out and look for you," Sam explains._

"_I swear, Sam. I didn't mean to be late," you reply. You gingerly touch your fingers to your face, where the throbbing won't stop. You feel along your cheekbone and wince when a small pain shoots through your face._

"_Don't touch it, Curly." Sam pulls your hand away from your face. "C'mon, we gotta get you home," he repeats. He grabs your arm and pulls you to your feet. Immediately, you feel pain shooting through your body, and you freeze. _

"_Ooh, man." You hunch over._

"_Don't puke on me, man." Sam backs up, but keeps his hand on your shoulder. _

"_I'm good, I'm good," you say. Placing your hands on your knees you stand for a moment, trying to get your bearings. _

"_Curly." Sam's voice hovers over your head._

"_Yeah?"_

"_You know what happened, right?"_

_You think for a moment. You remember walking home from school. Then suddenly, like a truck out of nowhere, you remember the white Chevy Bel-Air, the blond kid and the steel-toed boots. _

_You bring your hands up to your face. "Shit. I got jumped?" you ask, even though you know the answer. _

"_Yeah." Sam's voice is somber. "C'mon," he pulls your arm, leading you out of the park in the direction of your house. _

_You follow Sam back to your house, where you see the lights on inside, and a couple silhouettes sitting on the couch. _

_Sam opens the door first, and you follow, reluctantly. You haven't seen yourself yet, but you can bet that it's not pretty. When you peek out from behind Sam's back, the entire room falls into a hush. You see your older brother sitting in your stepdad's chair, his face stoic. _

_He stands up and makes his way towards you. He grabs your chin, surveying your face, his own facial expression unchanging. _

_Finally, he pats you on the back. "Go and clean up." Even with a boyish face and a height of five and a half feet tall, he still carried the attitude of a man who had been leading a group of warriors through a battlefield._

_You obey, and walk to the bathroom where you see yourself in the mirror. You look down in embarrassment. Half of your face is black and blue, and there is a small cut just below one of your eyebrows. _

_After washing up, you make your way to the room that you share with Tim and sit down on the bed. You hold your hands in your lap, and try not to let the invisible hand that is squeezing your throat push the tears out. _

_The door opens and Tim walks in. He sits down next to you on the bed and puts his arm around your shoulder. _

"_Hey," he says softly._

"_Yeah?" you mumble, still trying to not cry. _

"_That ain't gonna happen again." Tim pushes on your shoulder so that you are facing him. But you don't meet his gaze._

"_How do you know?" you ask. You're angry, pissed off that you had to be the one jumped._

"_Because we're going to fight back," Tim answers._

_You look up. Tim is grinning like a cat that has caught a mouse. _

"_How are we going to do that, Tim?"_

"'_Cause Sam and me are going to get a group of boys from our neighborhood, and we're going to watch out for one another. You too."_

"_Like a gang?"_

"_Yeah, kiddo, like a gang."_

**OOOOO**_  
_

You hazily open your eyes. Rubbing your face, you sit up, careful to not hit your head on the rungs that hang from Billy's bunk above you. You can hear Billy snoring lightly, and you slowly push yourself out of the bunk, grabbing a towel and a spare change of clothes. You open the door quietly and make your way to the shower room.

The first time you had been to the reformatory, you had felt awkward because there were no separate stalls in the showers. You hadn't taken a shower for a week after your first one, but eventually you got accustomed to washing in a room full of guys. As long as you maintain your face towards the wall, and ignore anything else that was going on in the shower room, no trouble would be started.

The shower room is a large room with shower heads built into the walls and a long bench in the middle. You place your clean clothes on the bench, then hand your towel on the hook next to the showerhead that you are going to use. You strip down, pulling off your shirt first, and then your pants. You drop them on the floor, hoping that the soapy water will clean them a little. Later, you'll hang them up to dry in your room.

You lather the shampoo into your hair, feeling the curls spring as you run your fingers through your hair. You also rub some soap over your body, hoping to scrub off the grime that has gathered since the failed attempt to heist the liquor store that was only two nights ago. Then, you step directly under the showerhead, allowing the water to run over your head, dripping down your back and over your face. The water feels so refreshing that you stand under the water a little longer than needed.

Finally, you turn the knob all the way to the right, and the pipes groan as the water stops. You grab your towel and wrap it around your waist. Turning around to grab your clothes, your heart stops for a moment when you realize that they are gone.

"Shit," you mutter to yourself. You pick up the clothes that are damp and soapy from the shower that you just took, and you keep searching for your clean clothes. You wonder where they could be, even though you know without a doubt that you placed them on the bench, which is now void of any articles of clothing.

"Looking for your clothes, Little Shepard?" You roll your eyes when you notice that the voice is Tony's. You turn around and see Tony, holding up your clothes, a Cheshire cat grin on his face. He's standing in the doorway of a toilet stall, and you just know what he is going to do.

"Tony, give them back," you say, exasperated. Even though he is two years older than you, you wish that Tony could act his age instead of like a grammar school girl.

"No can do, Little Shepard," Tony replies. He balls up your pants, shirt and underwear and throws them into the toilet. You roll your eyes again as Tony laughs and walks out of the room, his cackles bouncing off of the wall.

You clutch the edge of your towel and make your way over to the toilet. Of course, Tony had probably used the toilet before dumping your clothes in, hence the yellow-stained water that is now soaking your clothes.

"Motherfucker," you curse. Without any other options, you pull on the dirty, damp clothes that you had worn the previous day and throw your towel over your shoulder. You eye the trashcan near the sink, and suck in a deep breath as you reach your hand in and grab your toilet-soaked clothes.

"Jesus Christ."

You drop the clothes into the trashcan, because even if it puts you down one set of clothes, you would never wear them again anyways. Making sure that the water is scalding hot, you wash your hands, using a liberal amount of soap to get rid of the urine smell. You take a quick look at the clock, which says seven in the morning, and hope that you can sneak into your room in your dirty, wet clothes before anyone else sees you.

You make it into the main room to see that almost everyone is already up and talking, getting in a morning smoke before breakfast. You take a deep breath, put on your 'cool' face and walk into the main room, aware that you are wearing old clothes.

Laughter starts immediately. One of the boys comes up to you and says, "Hey, Baby Shepard? Did yer momma ever teach you about washing yer clothes?"

You ignore him as he laughs louder, making your way through the hallway to your room. Billy is standing in the doorway, a smirk on his face while his arms are crossed across his chest.

"Tony?" he asks.

"Yeah," you reply, not making eye contact and walking past him into the room.

"You do look pretty silly, though," Billy says. Then, showing his goodwill, he shuts the door to give you some privacy.

You've only been here for less than twenty-four hours, and already you've made an enemy who, in turn, has made you look like an idiot in front of the entire precinct.


	5. Stuck Inside

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Outsiders, unfortunately. **

**A/N: This chapter is a wee shorter than the rest, but I had to cut it off here. On the other hand, I'm getting too impatient, so in addition to Monday morning updates I'm also going to be updating Thursday evenings-ish. As always, reviews are loved.  
**

* * *

"So, Curly, care to tell us a story?"

You look up from Billy's _Playboy_ that you have swiped to see him and Dennis standing in the doorway. You suck in a deep breath form the cigarette that you are smoking and pull it out from your mouth using your forefinger and thumb, blowing out a wisp of smoke coolly.

"Story? What do I look like? Your grandma?"

Dennis smirks. "Tony, man. What's up with y'all's older brothers?"

"Oh, that." You ponder, thinking about the brief encounter that Tim had with Tony's older brother Al. "To be honest, I don't know much," you admit.

Billy shrugs. "No big deal man. But we're damn bored so even if you have only half of a story, we wanna hear it."

You grin. "All right." You take another drag on your smoke. "Let's see, it was a little more than a year ago. I had just turned fourteen, and Tim wanted to get in on the weed business because he had heard it was making a lot of money for people who were dealing. He had heard that a dealer named Al Parker was dealing some grass and wanted in. So he managed to get a meeting with him at an abandoned warehouse.

"Anyway, Tim and his second-in-command-slash-best-friend met up with Al and one of his buddies. I don't know exactly what happened, but when they came back they were in bad shape. Tim said something about it being a set up or something, but I don't know what went down. All I do know is that was the night that Al Parker got caught by the fuzz and sent to jail."

Dennis whistled. "I've heard Tony talking. Al was sent away for two years. Guess he had a lot of dough on him."

"Well, if he was going to set up another dealer, of course he would," Billy reasoned. He looks back at you. "So who does Tim get his weed from now?"

You shake your head. "No one. It was too close a call for Tim's comfort so he decided that selling weed just wasn't his business. At least, that's what he told me," you say.

Now that you think of it though, you're not sure if that's the whole reason why he stopped. Apparently neither does Dennis and Billy. "I don't know, man. That sounds fishy," Billy says slowly.

"Yeah," you agree. "Whatever, weed was never my style anyhow."

"You ever try it?" Dennis asks.

You look at Dennis then remember what he got sent in for. "Possession, right? What's so great about it, man?" you ask Dennis.

Dennis shakes his head. "Nah, I was asking to see what people think is so great about it. I mean I just sold grass. Never tried it myself."

"It's not that great," Billy speaks up.

"Yeah?" you reply. "What are you in for anyway, Billy?" You suddenly realize that Billy never told you what he was found guilty for.

Billy looks around uncomfortably, his hands deep in his pockets. "Murder," he says. Your eyes widen. "I didn't mean to," he continues. "I was in a fight with this one guy at a rodeo, and I wasn't doin' do good. So I grabbed the closest thing next to me, which just happened to be a spur, and hit him in the head. Cops didn't listen to me when I told them I was only defending myself, so I got slapped with a murder charge." You feel awkward, knowing that your roommate killed somebody. It's funny how one fact can change your view of a person.

"That's rough, man," Dennis finally says after a short silence. "Sounds like you got the short stick."

Billy smiles sadly. "Yeah, but a long sentence. I'm here till I'm eighteen."

"How old are you?" you ask.

"Just turned fifteen a couple months ago."

There is a knock and the three of you look up to see Harvey standing just outside the door. Looking over at Billy and Dennis you realize that Harvey is there for you and your stomach drops. Dreading the inevitable, you stand up and follow Harvey outside.

**OOOOO**

The sound makes you cringe inside and you pray to whoever is listening that the entire prison just shuts down so that you don't have to get your hair cut.

Your palms are sweating and you rub them on your pants, but it doesn't matter. You can't hear anything but the buzzing of the clippers even though the radio is on as high as it can go. The younger boy from a different cellblock moves to the chair and you are now the next person in line.

Your hair is part of your identity. Hell, it's the reason for your nickname. Without your curly black hair you're not even Tim's miniature. You're just another kid who has gone through the system. Your heart is thumping rapidly in your chest as the boy gets up from the chair, his head shaven. Clumps of hair litter the floor where the barber stands. He looks over at you.

"Next."

You don't move until you feel a prod in your back directing you to the chair. You swallow a lump in your throat and sit down. You want to close your eyes but your pride won't allow it.

No words are spoken, and the barber starts without a forewarning. The only way that you know it is happening is the sound of the clippers and the feeling of the cool razor against your scalp.

It only takes a few minutes to undo what you have spent your entire life identifying yourself with. Without your hair, you don't even feel like a greaser.

**OOOOO**

The next few weeks are uneventful until a new kid shows up in the reformatory. He's your age, but smaller and definitely did not grow up with a gang leader as an older brother. His eyes keep darting around, and at first you think that he is obviously scared out of his mind. While playing a game of pool after lunch, you ask him what he's in for.

"Arson," he says, twitching.

"What you set fire to? Your pants?" Dennis howls in laughter. "Is that why you're always twitching?"

"No" the boy answers. He picks up a pool stick, and easily shoots one of the striped balls into the far left corner pocket. He's a good shot, you'll admit, but you can't help staring at him as his hands continue to shake.

"I was mixing some chemicals in chemistry class. Fun, you know," he gives a light little laugh. "But I poured the wrong one in and 'boom!'" He cackles, and then stops, eyes shifting. You personally think this kid is a riot. Living on the North side, you meet some weird people, but the kids in the reformatory always seem to go up and beyond your expectation. "I didn't mean to," the kid says as an afterthought, his attention drifting away.

Dennis smirks. "Sure, kid." He turns back to the pool table, lining up to hit a solid ball in. He stands up, and resting on the pool stick, stares at the new kid for a moment. "Twitch," he says.

The boy looks at Dennis. "What?"

"Twitch," Dennis repeats. "That's what I'm gonna call you. Get used to it." You grin.

"It suits you, man." And it does. He moves like his bones are made of crack.

You see Tony out of the corner of your eye. He's staring at your group at the pool table, but his focus is on Twitch, staring with a hungry, predatory look. He stops and glances at you, making eye contact before turning around to his friends, who are congregating at the bottom of the stairs. You still haven't gotten back at him for soaking your clothes in the toilet, but you smirk at the thought of taking him down.

"Whose your roommate, Twitch?" you ask.

"Umm." He looks around quickly, as if he's trying to find out who he is supposed to be bunking with for the next few months. He looks back at you guys. "I don't really know," he admits, shoving his hands in his pants pocket. You hope for his sake that it isn't Tony.

Dennis smiles. You can tell that Dennis has taken a liking to Twitch. "Don't worry, kid," he clasps him on the shoulder. "We'll watch out for ya."


	6. Uneasy Feelings

**Disclaimer: I doth not possess the golden key which is The Outsiders. Please journey over yonder to visit Her Majesty Susie Hinton if thou wants it.  
**

**A/N: Deds go to somebluedecember for all of her grammar help and beta-reading. Reviews are loved and appreciated.  
**

**Also, I feel that it is necessary to provide a warning for this chapter. While it does not merit anything higher than a "T" rating, there is a sensitive subject at the end that may be uncomfortable for some readers.  
**

* * *

"Curly, you have a visitor," Harvey said. Wondering whom it could be, you stand up and follow him out of the room. He guides you to the edge of the block while the rest of the boys watch. Regardless, you keep your cool and follow Harvey.

"This way." He motions to the steel door; the door you haven't been out of in nearly two months.

Walking down the hallway, he leads you to one of the white-painted doors on the left. Harvey unlocks the three bolts that are holding it in place and then he opens up the door, and stands to the side so that you can go in.

"Take your time." He nods in the direction of the room.

You walk inside, feeling the cool air blowing from the air conditioner at the back of the room. The inside is plain. There are four white walls, a grey, cemented floor and one window that give a small picture of the outside world.

In the center of the room, an ordinary desk is stands with one chair on either side. The chair closest to you is empty, but across the table in the other chair sits Angela.

"Oh, Curly," she says in an uncharacteristically soft voice, as she stands up from the chair and moves towards you. She wrapped her arms around you and leans her forehead against your shoulder. You can feel her shaky breath and the undeniable need for some sort of comfort, but for what you don't know.

You bring your arms up, making her step back so that you can look at her. Her eyes are rimmed red, but she hasn't been crying. It looks as though she had been close, but the tears had never spilled over. You haven't seen your hard-as-nails sister this upset in a long time.

"Angel, what happened?"

She bites her lip, refusing to look you in the eye; instead she gazes intently at the wall behind you. "Dallas Winston is dead," she states, a quiver in her voice that offsets the blunt tone that she used to deliver the news. It takes a few seconds for the words to finally become clear. You double-take.

"What?"

"It was about two weeks ago, but they wouldn't let me in and I couldn't get word to you any other way. They said that this was as soon as I could come-"

"Wait, go back. What happened?" you press her for more news.

She takes a deep breath. "That Cade boy that hangs out with Dallas? Well he got burned real bad in a fire and he just died." She takes another deep breath. "And people are saying that Dallas just exploded. He just took off and the police caught up to him - I don't know - he did something stupid. He pointed a gun, and they just shot him full of-"

She starts to tear up again. "Tim was at the bar celebratin', you know, cause they beat the Socs and all, and what's-his-face, Two-Bit walked in and told him. He came home drunker than I'd ever seen him before. He didn't even get up the next day."

"I know you didn't do nothin', but now that I see you I'm just so mixed up, because I was just thinking, 'God, that could be Curly some day' and I-"

By now she is completely reduced to tears, some of the first tears that you have ever seen come from your sister in a long time. Even though you aren't really one for personal affection you gently wrap your arms around her and pull her close, allowing her to cry her eyes out onto your shirt.

You had never thought about how it would end. You had just figured that you were pretty much invincible. But now, thinking about how a hard person like Dallas met his end when he was seventeen - shot by the cops no less - it makes you wonder what is in store and whether you had already dug yourself a hole that you wouldn't be able to get yourself out of.

"Shepard," a voice calls from near the door. You look over your shoulder at Harvey, who has been standing by the doorway this whole time. He taps his wrist, then signals one minute left before you have to go back. You nod in understanding then turn around and grasp Angela by her shoulders, pushing her back a little so that you can see her face.

"Look, Angel." You hold onto her shoulders. "I'll be out in about four months; less if I can get out early on good behavior. Don't worry about me in here, and take care of Tim, okay?"

She gives a small smile. "Tim don't need no taking care of." Her voice is shaky. She wipes her eyes, staring for a moment at the mascara that has wiped off on her sweater.

You hear a cough behind you and you prepare to make your leave. "You're a tuff chick, Angel. I'll see you in four months, okay?"

As you back away, she nods, her arms wrapped securely around her stomach like she is giving herself a hug. With a final glance, you turn around and follow Harvey out of the door and back to the prison with many thoughts stuck in your head.

**OOOOO**

"Dallas Winston, huh?" Dennis takes a sip from his milk carton, staring you coolly in the eyes.

Even though you kept it to yourself, other boys had heard from their friends and pretty soon the entire precinct knew about Dallas Winston's demise. Almost every kid, with the exception of Twitch, knew about Dallas Winston, since he had been in the reformatory a couple times himself. One of the boys, Andy, who had been Dallas' cellmate for two months, had separated himself from the rest of the group and had taken to eating alone in the far corner of the mess hall.

Even you, who had known Dallas Winston pretty well through Tim, aren't as affected by Dallas's death as Andy. And you had fought side by side with Dallas while he fought other kids. On some occasions you were even the one who was getting beat up by Dallas.

You nod your head in Andy's direction. "What's up with him?" you ask. Dennis chugs his carton as Andy's cellmate leans over the table.

"Winston was Andy's first cellmate ever. When Andy got carted in here, he was fifteen and they put him in Winston's cell. Even though Winston has a reputation as a hardass, he helped Andy adjust to living in the reformatory. Personally, I can't see Dallas Winston being nice like that, but it's what Andy told me himself."

But you can see it. You think back to what Angela told you when she visited you two weeks ago. _"That Cade boy that hangs out with Dallas, you know, well he got burned real bad in a fire and he just died. And people are saying that Dallas just exploded."_

You take another look at Andy, who sits huddled, drawing a circle in his mashed potatoes with his fork. Then, you wonder if any of you really knew Dallas Winston at all.

"Andy! What's happening, bro?"

The entire hall goes silent as Tony walks down the aisle between the two rows of tables. He holds his tray in one hand and sits down next to Andy, clasping him on the back with his free hand.

You see Andy sigh deeply and mutter something to Tony, who just grins even wider.

"Nah, Andy. I can't leave you alone, mournin' an' all. I mean, I know Dallas Winston's dead, but that's no reason to get all gloomy."

At the public mention of Dallas Winston, everyone in the hall sucks in a breath. The guards stand by the door, ready to intervene if necessary. You yourself are ready to take on Tony if needed.

"Go away," Andy says, his fist clenched around his fork, which is upright. Even though it's plastic, you know that Andy will use it if Tony infuriates him any further.

"Okay, okay." Tony stands up, grabbing his tray. He bends down and whispers something in Andy's ear. While Andy's face freezes, Tony smirks and thumps Andy's head before moving to his usual spot with his other friends. The rest of the hall begins to talk, now that the action has subsided.

You can't help but look over at Andy, who still has his forked clenched in his fist.

**OOOOO**

The next week goes by slowly. Every day you smoke about two packs of Kools and play cards with Dennis and Billy.

"Flush," Dennis says, throwing his cards down on the table and leaning back in his chair, grinning like a goddamned fool.

"Damnit," you curse, throwing down your hand on the table. You have three kings, which normally would have been a good hand. But it's not enough to beat a flush.

"Haha." Dennis smiles, reaching over to grab the cigarette bounty. "Too bad, so sad, Lil Shepard."

"Shut up and take your prize," you grin. You know you'll get him back eventually, probably through pool or something.

You look around the prison block and easily spot Tony, who is leaning over the rail, staring at Andy's room. You remember back to when Tony had mentioned Dallas's death, and you wonder if there is more to it than one would originally think.

"Hey." You lean across the table, enticing Dennis and Billy to do the same. "You guys know if there's a beef with Tony and Dallas?"

"Was?" Dennis corrects you with a smirk. Then the smirk drifts off and he looks behind him at Tony, who is still leaning over the rail. "Yeah," he starts.

"They were the two big guys here not too long ago. Before you came in … and you," he adds as an afterthought, looking at Billy. "Didn't get along at all. Dallas, hardass as he was, was a nice guy in the cooler. Figured that were all equal, you know? Never really got in any trouble, and if he did it was to fight for another guy. He was a weird guy, Dallas.

"Anyway, I don't exactly know how, most likely through his brother or something, but Tony got some drugs in and was pushing them on other kids. You know, for extra cigarettes, cleaning duties and I guess just to be an all-around asshole. Dallas got a hold of what was happening and took Tony on."

"For drugs?" you ask.

"Yeah." Dennis nods. "He hated drugs. Talked about how they ruined New York."

"Dallas Winston's from New York?" Billy is shocked.

"You didn't know that?" you say incredulously. "Everyone knows that Dallas Winston is from New York."

"Nah," Billy replies, leaning back in his seat. "To be honest, I didn't really know him at all. I've heard his name before but I've never actually met him in person. I think half the time I heard his name was at the rodeo too."

"Well, he was a decent guy when he wanted to be," Dennis says, thinking back.

"Yeah," you nod, thinking back to when Dallas would fight Tim for no reason, including the first time they ever met. You are amazed at how much you are learning about him now, though, after he has died. You briefly wonder if people will talk about you after you die,

"So that's why Tony is messing with Andy?" Billy finally asks, after a few minutes of silence and pondering.

You furrow your eyebrows. "I would guess so. He's only bothered him in the lunch room, right?"

Billy shakes his head. "Nah, man." He nods his head in the direction behind you.

You look around and see Tony, like he's on the prowl, walking from his post at the railing and around the upper half of the prison. Kids are moving out of the way as he stalks past, with one of his buddies closely behind him. Those who don't move out of the way, he pushes roughly, but doesn't even spare them a glance.

"What's going on?" you ask. Only a couple kids besides you three have noticed Tony's movements.

"He's heading for Andy's cell," Dennis says quietly. He turns back around and starts to shuffle and deal the next hand.

You aren't exactly sure what is going to happen, or why Dennis has suddenly gone all quiet. You silently watch as Tony makes his way to Andy's room and walks in, shutting the door behind him. His buddy waits outside, leaning with his back against the wall and his arms crossed across his chest.

There are a few shouts, then the squeaks of a bed with too much weight on it. Disturbed, you turn around and stare at your cards, but you don't see what is in your hand. The rhythm of the squeaks gets louder and you struggle to not listen to the noise.

The only movement in your group is Twitch, who twitches with each creak of the bed. The entire prison block is now silent, and you wonder who is going to save you all now.


	7. Big Man

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Outsiders. I'm just borrowing them for a little while. **

**A/N: Thanks for somebluedecember for all her beta-reading. Please review - I would love to know your thoughts about the story thus far.  
**

* * *

"What the hell happened to you?"

Twitch's entire head is wet, his hair clumped in masses. He reaches for a towel—your towel—and uses it to attempt to dry his head.

"Tony."

The big man of the cellblock number two has been on a rampage that reminds you of those movies about Hitler that you had to watch during social studies class. Every day Tony causes small problems that aren't enough to get him in trouble with the guards but still displays the power and control that he has over everyone.

"That motherfucker," Billy curses. His jaw is tight with frustration. "I swear, if he causes any more trouble I'm gonna -" He cuts off, staring at the door.

"Yes, Marshall?" Tony asks, leaning on the edge of the doorway. "Did you say something?"

Billy keeps his tight stance in contrast to Tony who is relaxed as a sloth. Twitch is holding your towel in his hands, his hair still wet from Tony's prank. Dennis stands against the wall with his arms crossed while you sit on the bed, leaning your back against the headboard. Nevertheless, you can tell that you and Dennis are ready in case a fight breaks out.

When nothing happens and Tony moves on his way, you silently release a breath that you didn't know you were holding. At first you had just considered Tony a normal hood, but after what he did to Andy - who hasn't been the same since - you started to avoid confrontations. As each day passes and Tony claims a darker hold on the boys in prison you wish that Tim were here to give you some advice.

**OOOOO**

The water that you rinse the mop in is already gray, but you continue to use it to clean the floor of the bathroom.

Billy grumbles to your left as he cleans the toilets. "Fuck, man. This is the worst job ever."

You agree. Bathroom duty is the worst post given out in the morning and it seems that you and Billy have been forced to do it a lot lately. _Of course_, you grumble silently to yourself, _it doesn't help that Tony's friend, Doug, is the person who hands out assignments_.

You pause for a moment, leaning on the broom handle. "Hey, Billy."

"What's up?" A voice comes from one of the stalls.

"Are you trying to stand up to Tony, or something?"

Billy walks out of the stall and drops the toilet brush on the ground, wiping his hands on his t-shirt. "Whaddya mean?" he asks, puzzled.

"I dunno." You look around the bathroom, avoiding his eyes. "It just seems like ya really want to get back at him or something."

"Well shit, Curly," Billy says, his voice a little angry. "Maybe I do."

"Why?"

"Why not? You think it's okay for him to just go around; dunking kids heads in toilets and attacking mourning inmates? Do ya, Curly?"

His voice is getting higher and more frustrated with every syllable. You shuffle at your feet, slightly embarrassed.

"I just don't know how you are going to get back. I mean he's kind of a strong guy."

"And you're a fucking wuss."

You look up, anger starting to run through your veins. "What did you just call me?"

"A wuss, Shepard," Billy repeats. "Is that why you won't stand up to him? Because he's a strong guy? What happened to the Curly Shepard that walked in here and stood up to Tony like he was no big deal?"

"I didn't know what he was fucking capable of." You throw down the mop angrily. "Besides, what did you do last time? You shut your mouth the moment that he walked in."

Billy crosses his arms across his chest. "Well, I ain't gonna no more. Somebody needs to stand up to him.

You shake your head at him in disbelief. "And you're going to be that person?" It's not like he has a gang back home to back him up, or even an older brother who can give advice. One guy can't fight Tony alone. As far as you're concerned, fighting Tony would be like fighting Tim. He's older, stronger, more experienced. Billy doesn't stand a chance.

"C'mon, stand up to him. If he did something to me, I'd punch that motherfucker to next Tuesday." Billy sounded so much like Tim just now that you can feel goosebumps growing on your arms. "Just grow your own set of balls and fucking talk back."

You don't answer. Instead you pick back up your mop and continue to clean the floor. After a few seconds Billy gets the idea and goes back into the stall, cursing the entire way.

**OOOOO**

"You and Billy fightin'?" Dennis asks as you take a bite of the cold corn from your dinner tray.

It's been almost nine hours since you and Billy argued in the bathroom during assignments that morning. Billy had skipped lunch all together and was now eating dinner with Andy, who had become even more withdrawn lately. You keep sneaking glances over at the table, first at Andy, then at Billy, but neither one of them diverts their attention.

"What makes you say that?" You turn your attention to Dennis who takes a long gulp from his milk carton.

"Because I haven't seen you two together all day and now you keep looking over like a school girl in love." Dennis smirks. "What happened?"

"Nothing, just had a disagreement."

"'Bout what?"

"Damn, you're nosy." You drop your spoon on your plate and cross your arms. "Fine. This morning -"

"Baby Shepard!"

Your tray comes up to greet you and before you know it, corn and potatoes are splattered all over your shirt and pants.

"Glad to see you haven't been causing trouble lately." Tony sits down next to you leaning backwards on the table with his elbows propping him up.

"Unlike you," you mumble.

Tony leans in closer. "Sorry, what was that?"

You look up for a fleeting moment and catch Tony's eyes with your own. They are a set of dark blue that eerily reminds you of Tim. Your voice catches in your throat.

Tony raises an eyebrow at your silence. "That's what I thought," he finally says before standing up and walking away from the table.

The cafeteria becomes noisy again and you look over at Billy's table. His attention is on you, but he is shaking his head in disappointment, and for the hundredth time in the past three months, you wish that someone could give you a sense of direction.

**OOOOO**

Even while serving in the reformatory you are forced to go to school. You sit in a small chair with hundreds of doodles and notes carved into the wooden desk in front of you. Harvey doubles as the teacher here and tries to engage everyone to participate. Every minute of class you hunch over, hoping that he would pass you over.

"Curly, why don't you read the next paragraph, please?"

_Damn_, you curse inwardly. You stare at the book filled with words and no pictures and you sigh.

"Near the base of the mountain," Harvey begins, trailing off so that you can continue.

"Near the base of the mountain," you repeat, all while searching the page for the words. You'd lost your place when you started zoning out two minutes after the class started. Finally, you see the word mountain and start from the beginning of the paragraph again.

"Near the base of the mountain in an old cot -" You freeze, three words in and you can't read it. Harvey waits for a moment before helping you out.

"Cottage, Curly," he says.

You feel like such a fool because you can't read and Harvey treats you so nice.

"- An old cottage, a woman lived alone. Sometimes, while baking bread she would ven-too-ree-."

"Venture."

A snicker comes from the side and you glance over to see Tony laughing silently.

"Mr. Parker, is something funny?"

Tony sits up straight and puts on a poker face. "No, sir," he says with just a hint of mockery.

"I bet you he can't read it." Billy's voice pipes up.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Marshall. What did you say?" Harvey asks, turning his attention away from the story to Billy.

You secretly wonder was Billy is doing and why he is trying to stand up to Tony now during class.

"I don't think Tony can read the paragraph, which would make him seem hypocritical," Billy answers calmly.

Damn, Billy can sound really smart sometimes when he wants to. The entire class's attention is focused on Billy and Harvey now, while Tony sits in his seat, fuming.

"Okay, Tony, would you like to read?" Harvey has a small smile on his face that's easy to miss. You're pretty sure that he knows what's been going on too. You think it's pretty tuff that

Tony shoots Billy a glare that Harvey easily catches before turning to the book. "Sometimes while baking bread she would venture out into the wild-er-ness in order to sca-ven-gay some nu-tree-ki-oh-us berries." The entire class is snickering to themselves now, you included, while Harvey hides his amusement.

"Thanks, Tony," Harvey says with a hint of a smile. "Next?"

You zone out during the rest of the class and thank God when the big hand reaches the twelve. You follow the rest of the class who gets up and leaves before Harvey is done talking. You manage to catch up to Billy while everyone else hurries to get back to their cells to grab a cigarette before lunch.

"Hey, man." You tap him on the shoulder. He turns around and looks at you with indifference. You stick your hands in your pockets awkwardly. "Thanks."

"No problem. But next time, I ain't gonna do it. You're gonna have to stand up for yourself."

You smirk. You thought it was impossible to learn anything from anyone but Tim. When you had first walked through the reformatory doors you had figured that it was just going to be a six-month sentence and then you were out. "Sure. I think I can do that. And I guess I can help ya out too."

He grins and punches your shoulder. The two of you start to leave, only to be blocked by Tony.

"You think that was funny, Marshall?" Tony asks, taking a step forward.

You silently watch Tony, growing frustrated with each second at our own cowardice. "I thought it was," you say defiantly, earning a grin from Billy.

Tony looks over and scoffs. "Sure, you couldn't read either, Shepard."

"You're a real asshole, you know that?" Billy hangs his thumbs through his belt loops and stands in a relaxed pose like he's James Dean or something.

"Everything okay here, boys?" Harvey asks as he walks outside of the classroom, turning off the lights and locking the door.

"Everything is fine," Tony responds, not taking his eyes off of Billy. "I'll get you later," he says quietly, so that Harvey can't hear him. His eyes are dark and full of anger.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be."


	8. White Ceiling

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Outsiders. Maybe for my birthday?**

**A/N: Deds to somebluedecember for beta-reading. As always, please review and let me know what you think!  
**

* * *

You let the pool stick slide in the crevice of your hand, pushing it forward and right before it hits the white cue ball, you bring it back again in a smooth motion. You do this a few times before thrusting it forward, hitting the ball dead center.

Dennis is standing on the other side of the table, holding his own pool stick in his grasp. He cusses slowly and under his breath when the last striped ball goes straight into the pocket.

"Youse a good pool player," he says, nodding in your direction. "You play for more than cancer sticks outside of here?"

You grunt, not really interested in answering the question, because you're focusing on the white cue ball and the black eight ball. It's lined up as though you were able to place the balls wherever you wanted on the table. It's a straight shot to the left corner pocket, and you stand up, motioning at the balls with your pool stick.

"Eight ball, left corner," you say, and then you bend down and line up the stick with the pool balls once again.

Just as you push the pool stick to strike the white ball, you hear a yell from across the room. It startles you, the pool stick slides, you barely hit the ball and the entire shot it ruined.

"Fuck." You throw the stick on the table, and then look up to shoot Dennis a glare. But he isn't smirking; he isn't even looking at you. Instead, he's peering above you at the second floor with a curious gaze on his face. You turn around, and see a crowd gathering around your room. You curse; no doubt a fight was going on, and - based on the hollers and yells from the group surrounding the said fight, someone was losing, badly.

You hold onto the pool stick - just in case you need it later - and run up the stairs over to the fight. Dennis follows you into the crowd. One of the boys recognizes you then lightly punches the guy next to him. They move aside, as if you are a King in a royal procession.

"Stop!" It's a weak gasp, but you recognize that voice. You've only had to hear it every day that you have been here.

You shove your way to the front and push the last guy standing in your way. Your stomach clenches. Billy is lying on the floor - his face completely bloodied - weakly trying to block the swift attacks from Doug and Tony.

"Shit," you mutter to yourself, before dashing in to the fight to help your buddy. You notice that Dennis isn't behind you anymore, and you jump into the fray by snapping the pool stick in half over Tony's back.

He is stunned for a moment, enough for you to push him into Doug. Doug manages to keep Tony upright, and they look at you with menacing glares. Billy moans from the ground. From the corner of your eye you see him clutching his ribs while coughing up blood onto the cement floor. He slowly starts to rise onto his hands and knees.

"Shepard," Tony growls, before clenching his fists. He makes it a point to step onto Billy as he makes his way towards you. Billy's face slams into the ground, and then he doesn't move.

Tony throws a punch at you, but you dodge it easily. He continues to attempt to hit you but you manage to avoid his punches by keeping your distance. Since you don't want to get too close, you decide to hurt him from afar.

"So, you're just going to beat up on kids smaller than you?"

Tony smirks. He stops for a moment and smirks as he crosses his arms over his chest. The look on his face tells you that he has some big secret. The crowd is starting to whisper, and you're amazed that the guards haven't broken the fight up yet.

You see him too late, and in a split second your arms are being held behind your back, twisted into an uncomfortable position by Doug. You totally forgot that he was there. If Tim was here then he would probably join Tony in your beating, telling you how stupid you were to forget about something as important as how many people are in the fight.

You gasp when the first punch hits your lower abdomen. Then the next punch hits you square in your face and the back of your head hits Doug's shoulder. You hear them snicker.

"Stop."

Tony stops, Doug stops, the crowd stops and you freeze on the inside when everyone looks over at Billy. He is still on the floor, his head barely rising above the cement surface.

"He ain't … no part in … this," he stutters.

Tony takes two large strides over to Billy, and you hear the shrill sound of an officer's whistle in the background. The officers start to hurry over, but it's too late, as Tony grabs Billy by his long hair and repeatedly slams his head into the ground.

"Off! Stop now, Tony," Harvey yells.

You manage to break from Doug's grasp and jump onto Tony's back, bringing him down with you.

You stop thinking and hit him as much as you can, as hard as you can, as fast as you can. You feel hits to your own body, but it's in a far distance, as though you have shut down your nerves and can't feel anything.

Then, once again, you are pulled away, your arms pulled behind your back. You struggle violently, even throwing your head back to hit the person behind you. When you are slammed onto the floor and your hands being cuffed behind your back you realize it's an officer.

You're brought up violently, and shoved towards the metal door opened by another officer. Then you're pushed in various directions until another door is opened and you're shoved into a white hallway.

You start to struggle again, twisting and shouting, anything, anything, you cry, but that.

"No! Please!"

It's your worst fear, and they know this. They use it to their advantage, and are relentless when they give you a sentence. They know that solitary confinement makes you go mad.

"Anything! Extend my sentence, don't feed me, beat me up! Anything!"

But they don't listen. Another officer has joined now, and it takes both of them to bring you to a door that leads to the fated room.

The second officer lets go of you for a second and opens the door. You are thrust in, and as soon as you get your bearings you turn around and hurry to the door, but it's shut already, and all you have is yourself.

You bang on the door, yell as loud as possible, you thrust your hand through the small opening in the door …"

"Get me outta here!"

Almost immediately you lose track of time. Your hands have become numb and there are cuts on your knuckles where your hand scraped the sharp edge of the slot in the door. You scream yourself hoarse.

You stumble back, staring up at the bright white room. You fall down, but you don't stop moving backwards. You make it into the small corner between the bed and the wall, and you wrap your arms around your shins, pulling your knees inward towards your chest. It's times like these when you wish you had Tim next to you, giving you some sort of comfort.

**OOOOO**

You are lying on the bed in a comatose manner when the door opens for the first time in two weeks. You barely move your head to see who has come to your room. You realize it's Harvey, and you sigh and revert back to your original position, your hands clasped on your stomach, staring at the blank, white ceiling.

"Curly."

You sigh again. You lick your lips so that you can speak for the first time in two week.

"What?" Your voice is still hoarse.

"Marshall's dead. They took him off life support an hour ago." He pauses. "Thought you'd want to know."

You remain silent, but your mind is running over thoughts that have suddenly appeared in your head, darting in and out, fleeting. There are so many things you want to ask, to say, but you can't for the life of you say anything.

After no response, Harvey turns around and closes the door.

**OOOOO**

The next month passes by quickly while you are stuck in solitary confinement. Three times a day the guard gives you your meals and afterwards takes the tray, but other than that you have no source of human companionship. After a while, a shell starts to grow and by the time Harvey comes to you door to tell you it's time to go, you've forgotten how to really feeling anything.

"You're getting out today, Curly," Harvey says. He sits down next to you on the bed while you stare ahead.

"Yeah," you reply. You've been silently counting down the days since you've been in solitary. You weren't exactly sure of the day - the guards refused to tell you - but you knew that you were supposed to be let out soon.

"Once your brother gets here to sign the papers we'll be letting you go," Harvey states, as if this is the first time that you are being freed from the reformatory. He pauses for a moment. "Can I get you anything?"

You look at him. You look back down at your hands again and feel no emotion as you think about his question.

"No."

**OOOOO**

Six months.

You haven't been home in six months; you've been sleeping on a hard, lumpy mattress in a 12x12 cell with four plastered gray walls, fed three meager meals a day, with only the voices of other lowly criminals to talk to.

Six months after you were sent to prison, you are back home.

You let the water from the shower head run over your body a few more seconds before you turn off the faucet and step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around your waist. You wipe the condensation from the mirror and your daunting face looking right back at you; dark blue eyes that show no amount of innocence, slick, curly black hair that naturally curls back behind your ears and along the nape of your neck. It took six fucking months for it to grow back to the way it was.

The fuzzy reflection in the mirror that you were looking at before is almost clear as day. It's kind of scary; first seeing just a blurry visage poking out from the glass, and as time passes the mirror image slowly becomes more like Tim.

You're sixteen now - of course you would start to look like your older brother. Granted, his eyes are a little colder and your nose doesn't look like it's been broken three times. It's been a slow transformation, from a child who looks up to his older brother in awe to a young man that could pass as his older brother himself.

Even when you were a kid, you were always, "Tim's younger brother", or "Little Shepard". No matter what your appearance was, you were always associated with your older brother. And every time you went to the cooler you were followed by Tim's presence, both in your mind and the minds of the other inmates.

You sigh and turn away from the mirror. Now you have returned to Tulsa's streets and you still are "Tim's little brother".

You get dressed in the pair of jeans and a white t-shirt that you grabbed out of your closet the minute you had gotten back home. The shirt has a slight rusty stain on the sleeve and the jeans are a little short because of your growth spurt, but it's something that you can wear and that's all that really matters. You make a note in the back of your head to get some longer jeans when you leave … how you're going to go about that you haven't decided yet.

After you comb your hair back, you grab your wallet and switchblade and walk out of the bathroom, leaving the door open so that the hot air can escape. You walk in front of your step dad who manages to keep watching the game and curse at you at the same time. The front door is open and you walk outside, grabbing a seat on the porch. Beside you Tim is sitting, smoking a cigarette.

"Heard you got into some trouble in the cooler."

"Yeah."

You expect some sort of praise or some kind of reaction but you get none. Tim continues to just sit there, staring out into space, smoking. Finally he grinds his smoke on the concrete, stands up and makes his way into the house. He is the definition of cool, your older brother.

Once he is gone, you close your eyes and inhale the wonderful scent of freedom. You lean back on the cool concrete and think about how good it feels to be home.


	9. Historical Warriors

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders. I own a book called The Outsiders, but The Outsiders itself belongs to S. E. Hinton.**

**A/N: Thanks to somebluedecember for beta-reading. You guys should totally check out her stories if you haven't already! And thanks for all of the reviews. And while I love all reviews, signed-in and anon., I can't reply to the anon. reviewers, so real quick ... Diehardoutsiderfan - what do you mean by I lost the game? Thanks for the review regardless! Please leave your comments, I would love to hear them!  
**

* * *

"Hey, Curly."

You turn around and see Ponyboy Curtis walking towards you, his backpack slung over one shoulder and a book in his hand.

"Curtis," you nod in greeting.

"What's going on? You just got out of the reformatory, huh?"

"Yeah, same old, same old," you try to grin, but you can't help it. The reformatory brings back lots of memories, none of them worth grinning about. You try to turn the conversation away from you and the reformatory and motion to the book in his hand. "What you got there?"

He shrugs, trying to play it off. "Nothing really. It's just a book on World War II. History class." You can see him trying to hide his intelligence.

"What, you gotta read it and write a paper or somethin'?"

He shakes his head, embarrassed. "Nah. The teacher recommended it to us if we were interested in the fighter pilots, so I decided to stop by the library and pick it up."

"The library, huh? So there is one around here then, I never would have known." You chuckle. But you do know. You know that it was right across the street from that liquor store that you got busted in. You know, looking out across that street that it was a place that you would never go to.

"Ah, shut up, Curly." Ponyboy hits you on the shoulder playfully.

"I bet you go all the time, huh, Curtis?" you laugh.

Ponyboy grins, but you can tell that he's frustrated with the teasing. Hell, you know he is. Being a greaser who enjoys reading - it's not a common thing on the North side. You know his older brother never really agrees with him and his middle brother dropped out. You bet it's uncomfortable living in a house where no one seems to understand you. To live in a neighborhood where you don't really fit in.

You stick your hands in the pockets of your leather jacket and roll your shoulders back. "Why do you like the library, Curtis?" you ask, honestly curious.

He's taken aback by your question. He looks to the sky as if he's asking God for an answer, then looks back you. "It's quiet," he says, "Lots of books. Interesting books. Stories about things that I could never dream about. Warriors riding horseback into battle, women commanding naval fleets across the globe, common peasants revolting against the monarchy -"

He stops; embarrassed that he basically unleashed an essay on how he likes to read about far away lands and people. Before you went to the reformatory you would have laughed. You would have swung your arm around his shoulders, handed him a beer and urged him to get laid. Now you feel different.

"Where is this library?"

**OOOOO**

"You sure?" Ponyboy asks as you walk up to the library doors.

"Yeah man," you nod. You want to see what is so great about these characters that people would rather read about them and their fake lives than live their own.

He pushes open the door and you follow him in. Almost immediately the woman at the desk looks up and gives you a glare. You know you deserve it - your hair is heavily greased, there is a hole in your jeans, and the smell of cigarettes mixes with the leather scent from your jacket. You wouldn't trust yourself if you walked into a library.

"Hello, Ponyboy," she greets him while keeping her eyes on you.

"Hello, Mrs. Jones," Ponyboy says timidly. You aren't sure whether it's the horn-rimmed glasses on the edge of her nose or the fact that you are still behind him. His face had stopped in shock when you asked him where the library was, and after a few moments he slowly asked "Why?" You chuckle at the memory. Curly Shepard and the library. It just doesn't really mix.

"Curly," Ponyboy hisses, and you move behind him into the center of the library.

There are towers and towers of books. So tall that if you wanted one from the top shelf, Superman would have to fly to retrieve it for you. The shelves are lined up next to each other, and each isle looks like it could go on forever. Ponyboy's right; it's quiet. You can't hear anything but the movement of pages.

He turns around and shrugs. "So, yeah. This is the library."

You raise an eyebrow. "How do you know what book to pick?"

"Well," he draws out. "What do you want to read about?"

You stop staring around and fix your eyes on Ponyboy with a look. He grins sheepishly and turns around, rubbing the back of his head with his hand. "Sorry, I forgot. Umm, let's see. I think I have an idea," he beckons you and you follow him because you still don't know what the hell you are doing in this place.

He leads you down one of the long rows and finally stops in the middle - combing the books on the shelves, running his index finger across the spines as he reads the titles, mumbling to himself.

"Here," he stops and pulls out a book. It's thicker than anything you've ever seen, and you think there has got to be at least a hundred pages in that thing. It's brand new; the front cover is glossy, the pages crisp, the ink is giving off a scent that you can smell even though you aren't even holding the book.

"This one's small, but it's a good start," he hands you the book.

"Small?" You ask, exasperated. You go through the pages until you reach the end. "It's a hundred and twenty pages," you turn to the front cover again. Great. You don't even know what the title means.

"What the hell does this mean?" you ask, pointing at the weird word on the front. "I ain't never seen this word before."

Ponyboy grins. "Of course you haven't. It's a Japanese word. And the book explains what it means." He points to the word on the front.

Now you are really confused. Who writes a hundred and twenty pages on one word? And why the hell would Ponyboy give you a book that is a hundred and twenty pages on a word that isn't even English?

You sigh. You're starting to regret coming to this place and – in a moment of sheer frustration - you wonder if you can manage to steal a bottle of bourbon from that liquor store across the street.

Apparently Ponyboy sees it too, because he grabs the book from you and opens it up to the first few pages.

"The word is 'samurai'," he says, pointing about the syllables on the title page. He flips through the book quickly, skimming the chapters.

"What did you say?" you ask.

"Samurai," he answers. "Japanese sword warriors from a long time ago. They fought for honor, pride, reputation, their leaders -"

You grin. You can see where Ponyboy is going now. "Like us," you say, with a conjuring feeling deep down.

He nods. "Yeah, a little different though when you focus on things." He closes the book and hands it to you. "I think you would have liked them."

"All right." You shrug, holding the book in front of you like you're still not sure about this whole reading thing. "I'll give it a shot."

**OOOOO**

The book sits on the end table beside your bed. You are lying down on your back, smoking a cigarette while the book haunts you from your bedside. You keep looking over at it, stuck between wanting to read and wanting to say 'forget it' and go get drunk somewhere. You finish off the cigarette and stub it out in the ashtray, before folding your hands behind your head.

After deliberating for a moment, you sit up and grab the book. Sighing, you open the book up to the first page.

"The moon shines brightly, casting a light onto the empty pra-pra-," you stutter, unable to sound out the word. You stop, then try again. "Pra-eye, pry," you pause again, flustered. You look back once more at the book, and try one last time. "Pra-eye-rye". It doesn't sound like any other word you have ever heard, and in a sudden spout of anger, you throw the book across the room, satisfied when you hear a sounding smack against the wall.

You fall back onto the bed and stare up at the ceiling, thinking about how it looks so similar to the one back at the reformatory. But thinking of the reformatory makes you think of everything that went down, and you quickly get up, grabbing your leather jacket and you hurry out the door.

**OOOOO**

The party is loud, and there is beer flowing everywhere. Your friends Jimmy and Neil are standing by the bar and you make your way over to them.

Halfway there, you are grabbed by the arm and pulled over to a table. Tim is sitting there, and you realize that it was his second in command, Sam Morris, who grabbed your arm.

You give him a glare. You rip your arm out of his grasp and cross your arms over your chest. "What do you want, Tim?" you aren't really in the mood to deal with his gang business tonight. Tonight you just want to get drunk and forget that you tried to read earlier, forget that you attempted to learn about something that you couldn't learn on the streets.

"I've got a job for you, Curly," Tim starts.

He's got your attention now. Before you went into the reformatory, you'd been waiting for that sentence forever. But six months away is a long time, and you've changed since you went in. Still, he's your brother and your leader, you're obligated to listen.

"What's up?"

Tim motions with his head to Sam and the other two guys, Frank Green and Phil Rogers, who are also sitting around the table.

Frank and Phil are from the Brumly side of town and don't often come over to your neighborhood. You know something is up if they're over here on Shepard territory.

"We've got a hook-up with the Brumly Boys. They're going to supply the people and publicity, we bring in the mechanics."

You raise an eyebrow. They're thinking about setting up races? You think Tim has to be crazy, especially to work with the Brumly Boys.

"What's the split?" you ask.

"Fifty-fifty," Tim answers.

You nod in response. You start thinking about whether it would be worth it, since nobody likes a person who cheats another out of his money. If Tim gets found out, if anyone gets found out, they're going to go after anyone who is connected.

Tim turns to Frank and Phil. "Good, me and Curly will meet you next Saturday, five o'clock at the liquor store on fifth avenue." Tim reaches his hand across the table and shakes Phil's with a strong grip.

You stop thinking, bewildered. As soon as Frank and Phil are out of earshot, you place both hands on the table and lean over. "What the hell, Tim? I never agreed to this drag race thing!"

Tim pushes himself up, and grabs his beer as he steps out of the booth. "This is a gang, Curly. You don't have a say."

**OOOOO**

You are damn frustrated that Tim ordered you around like you were a random lackey in the gang and not his younger brother. You sip at your beer, letting it fall onto the table with a clang.

"Hey, Curly," you look up to see a skinny blond girl with full, red lips standing next to you, playing with your collar. "Haven't seen you in a while," she says coyly with a smile.

You think for a moment, and then you realize that the girl is Katrina Lincoln. She's a year older than you and was dating one of the Brumly boys when you had gone into the cooler.

"Hey, Trinie," you say, using her nickname with a flirty tone. "Long time, no see."

She giggles. "You haven't been around to see, silly."

"What happened to your boyfriend?" you ask.

"I don't see him," she looks around innocently then back at you. "Besides, we broke up two months ago. He thought it was okay to see other girls behind my back," she said spitefully.

Of course, you know that Katrina has a habit of sneaking around behind her boyfriend's back, but you keep that to yourself. Instead, you try to make her comfortable. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Maybe," she flirts.

You signal to Buck for another beer, and hand it to her. She takes it, before tapping your own beer for a toast, then takes a deep drink. She leans against you, and your hand playing with the hem of her skirt, barely tapping her smooth thigh.

"Let's go upstairs," she whispers into your ear. You smirk and stand up, letting her know that you agree with her idea.

She walks towards the stairs, sashaying her hip just for you. You grab the rail and walk behind her, watching her ass with careful attention. When she reaches the top of the stairs she turns around, grabs your collar and pulls you in for a deep kiss.

You oblige, right there in the middle of the hallway. After a few moments you begin to get impatient and you pull her to one of the rooms. When you shut the door, you leave behind all thoughts of the deal with the Brumly Boys, all thoughts of Tim and all thoughts about that stupid book.


	10. Dairy Queen

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders.**

**A/N: Thanks to somebluedecember for beta-ing. Send me some loving reviews for Valentine's Day?

* * *

**

Without anything to do - since you all but dropped out of school and you've attempted to stay out of trouble since your stint in the reformatory - life is rather boring. Then one day you wake up - Tim has already left - and you realize that it's Saturday. Saturday, as in the day that you and Tim are meeting Frank and Phil about the races.

While you are still pissed that Tim brushed off your comments like you weren't anyone important, you can't help but feel special knowing that Tim picked you to go with him to the meeting point. You've always wanted to be somebody important who matters in the gang, and you know that it's about time Tim finally realized your potential.

The clock says noon and you finally decide to get up, get some food and then meet with Tim to see if you can do anything before the meeting. You grab the cleanest pair of jeans from the floor, realize that they are Tim's, and then search for another pair to wear. Once dressed, you grab your wallet and smokes from on top of the dresser. Heading into the kitchen you see what you can scavenge from the fridge.

It's completely bare, with the exception of a six-pack of beer and a sandwich that is starting to turn green. You wonder how you can have two women in this house and still have an empty fridge ninety percent of the time. Scowling, you head to your mother's room.

"Mom, there isn't any food," you say after you knocked on the door. "Can I have five dollars or something?"

"Ralph took all the money I had this morning. Where's your brother?"

"I dunno." You try to avoid whining, but you are starving and once again your deadbeat step-dad is preventing you from eating and Tim is nowhere to be found.

"Well, look for him. Maybe he can feed ya." The door opens and she comes out wearing her waitress uniform. "I have to be at work in half an hour. Why aren't you at school?"

"I dropped out."

"Oh." She stops, puzzled. "When was that?"

You shrug. "A while ago?"

"Well, get a job then," she reasons. Stepping around you, her heels clunk on the floor as she makes her way into the hallway.

You sigh and follow her into the kitchen.

"Tim doesn't have a job." Your voice is starting to get dangerously high but you can't help it. You're hungry.

"Tim doesn't ask me for money."

"_Mom_," you drag out.

"Charles!"

You freeze. Your mom hasn't called you Charles in a long time. Her eyes have that pointed look Angela has picked up that means that the discussion is over. Your shoulders slump in defeat and you shuffle your feet as you follow your mom to the door.

"I'll be back around ten because I have the late shift. Try not to get arrested tonight," she says before waving to the ladies in the carpool in front of your house. You are left alone, with an empty house, an empty wallet and an empty stomach.

"Fuck."

**OOOOO**

Eventually you find yourself at Bucks, where hopefully he can give you something to eat. It's almost two o'clock now and your stomach has been growling for the past hour.

You walk into the bar, completely void of people except for Buck who is at the register, counting change and writing stuff on a piece of paper.

"Buck!" you greet him, pulling yourself up on the chair. He gives you a look like he is just wondering why you are here so early and when the trouble is going to start.

"Little Shepard," he finally acknowledges you and then turns back to his register.

"So, uh, you got any food?" you ask.

He stops counting again and turns around. "What do I look like? Your mom? I don't have to feed you."

"My ma don't feed me either. I'm starving, man."

"Where's Tim? Ask him for some food."

"Why is that everyone's answer? Can't you just give me a cracker or something? I'm fucking hungry!"

"Find your brother."

You growl in frustration and let head fall into your crossed arms on the bar. After a few seconds you hear Buck go back to his counting. A minute later your stomach growls again.

"Sooo hungry," you mutter pathetically.

The sound of the door opening catches your interest, but you are too tired and hungry to raise your head. You feel like you spent all of the energy that you had just to get to Buck's.

"Tim, your brother's been complaining about food. Feed him," Buck says, catching your attention. You look up and find Tim standing next to you.

"Tim, I'm starving." Your voice is weak.

"Too bad I just ate. Buck, you have those tools that I asked for last week?"

"Oh my God," you say, exasperated. You fling yourself onto the bar, your fingers dangling off the counter.

"What the hell is your problem?"

You look up at Tim who is giving you a look. "The fridge is empty, Ralph is spending the last of mom's money on beer and Buck here won't give me a fucking cracker!"

Tim sighs, rubbing his face with his hand. "Calm down. Once I'm done here I'll take you to the Dairy Queen and get you something. Jesus, Curly."

You see Buck roll his eyes in the corner of your vision, but you ignore him. You are finally going to get some food, and then you and Tim are going to do some real gang work tonight.

After ten agonizing minutes, Tim finally finishes up and the two of you leave with a backpack of wrenches and screwdrivers.

The ride to the Dairy Queen is silent, with the exception of Elvis songs on the radio. When Tim finally pulls in to the drive-thru, he orders a BBQ sandwich, some fries and a small coke. You feel a small tang of guilt when he pulls out money from his pocket, but you quickly push that away; you know he got it illegally somehow, so it's not like it's his money.

"Here." He tosses the bag into your lap and then places the coke between you knees before he takes off.

"Thanks, Tim." You hastily open up the bag and grab a french fry. You put it into your mouth, and sigh in pleasure. "God, this is the best food ever."

Tim humphs, putting the car into drive before taking off. He hits a small jump as he drives out into the main street, earning a yell from a man in a pick-up truck near the exit.

After a few French fries you dig into your sandwich. After taking the first bite you look over at Tim, who is driving with both hands on the wheel, a stony look on his face. "Whuff uh, 'im?" you mumble, still eating.

"Finish eating, then speak. Don't you got any manners?" Tim asks.

_Like you have any manners._ You swallow and turn in your seat so that you are facing him. "What's up Tim? You look all pissed or somethin'. You can't be too pissed though, since we're goin' to meet Frank and Phil later."

"'Bout that, Curly." Tim finally pulls into the driveway of your house. After he parks the car and turns it off, he looks at you. "I'm going with Sam tonight."

"Wait, what?" You are shocked. "I thought you're taking me with you?"

"I was. Then you threw this schoolgirl shit today when I didn't need it. If you can't feed yourself then how can I trust you to hold yourself up in a fight?"

"You've seen me fight before!"

"And I've seen you eat before. You gotta learn to take care of yourself, man. I ain't always gonna be there for you."

Anger is running through your veins and you feel your face heat up. You were looking forward to this job so bad and now it's been taken away from you. You are so pissed you can barely see straight.

You know it's childish and that you are giving Tim a win, but you huff and open up the door, ending the conversation.

You slam through the door and make your way to the room that you share with Tim. Flopping yourself on the bed, a range of emotions running through your head and you curl your fingers, your nails digging into your palms.

"God damn it."

**OOOOO**

You open your eyes gently, getting used to the bright lamp near your bed. You stretch your arms far and wide, yawning as you gaze over to the clock. It's just past seven, and the orange glow from the window indicates that the sun is starting to go down.

Rolling onto your stomach and pushing yourself off of the bed, you rub your eyes roughly, trying to get rid of the sleep that has seems plague you since you got out of the reformatory. You make your way to the kitchen, where Angela is spreading peanut butter on two pieces of bread for dinner.

She turns around and holds out the sandwich. "You hungry?"

Nodding, you take the sandwich out of her grasp, muttering thanks as you sit down and take a bite. She hums a reply then goes back to the cabinet to find two more slices of bread to make another one for herself.

You see that she is in a pair of jeans that she mostly wears around the house, and a plain t-shirt that is much more modest than what she usually wears. There is still mascara and eyeliner around her eyes, but her hair is limp, pulled into a quick ponytail that is draped over her shoulder.

"You not going out tonight?" you ask. It seems that she has always had something to do before.

"Yeah." She sighs. "Susan and Linda are goin' on a double date with their boyfriends, so neither of them can go to the movie with me. I was just gonna to hang out here tonight."

You take that in silently before responding.

"What 'bout your boyfriend, what-his-name, Vince?"

She shakes her head. "Got in a fight earlier today, so I don't think that would be a smart idea." Her face is sad as she says this.

You sit up in the chair, and stop eating your sandwich, studying Angela as she finishes making her own sandwich and sits down in the chair opposite from you.

You both study each other for a moment, until she scrunches her face. "What?"

Leaning back in the chair, you ask coolly, "What'd he do?"

She leans back in her own chair, an impassive look on her face. "Nothing. Just being an asshole, that's all."

You drop it at that. She obviously doesn't want to talk about it, and if that's the case, then you won't push it. You know how loud Angela screams if her buttons get pushed.

"What are you doing tonight?"

"Nothing."

"Why not? I'm sure you could find a party somewhere."

You look back up at her. "Why don't you go find a party then?"

"I don't wanna. There isn't anything wrong with that."

"I don't want to either."

The air is filled with silence for two minutes before she speaks up.

"You want to go see a movie?"


	11. Red Fists

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders. And it's too late/early to come up with something witty.  
**

**A/N: Deds to somebluedecember for beta-reading. And if you read her stories as well, the names that are used in this chapter for some minor OCs are just coincidental. But, hey, what can I say? Great minds think alike. :P  
**

* * *

You're starting to wonder if it was worth the fifty cents to get the car into the drive-in when you see the poster for "Funny Girl". It's a new musical that just came out, but you've never gone for those movies where everyone sings like there is something worth singing about. At the same time, though, you realize that Angel has been hoarding all of the money lately, so it's not like you are actually the one paying to get in. Every day she asks for a dollar from Ralph, sometimes she spends it, sometimes she doesn't. _She'll make a good banker someday_, you think.

Angela apparently also notices your disgust about the movie. "You don't wanna see this movie," she asks buts it's more of a statement than a question. You pull into a spot next to another greaser car that is occupied with couples laughing and joking like they are having the time of their lives.

You shrug. "We're here, aren't we? Besides, it's not like we can watch some other movie."

She hums in response and leans back in the seat, her arms crossed over her chest. She yawns loudly.

"Don't be fallin' asleep on me now, ya hear?" you joke, and she glances over at you a smirk on her face. After a moment she furrows her eyebrows and leans over to where you are slouched against the seat.

"Angela?"

"What happened?" she asks, her voice full of concern.

You have no idea what she is talking about. "What?"

Her dainty fingers reach up to the side of your head, pulling back your hair to trace the pink scar that traces your hairline. "When did this happen?"

You bat her hand away. "In the reformatory. No big deal."

"How did it happen, Curly?"

You glance at her and roll your eyes. You don't understand how she can think that just because kids go to the reformatory they suddenly stop fighting. "In a fight." Her eyes widen in concern so you press on. "You should've seen the other guy though." You smirk, even though you were worse off from the fight.

"So, some guy just decided to bash your head in?"

You decide not to tell her that it was actually your roommate who got his head bashed in, and it was because of that fight that you had to spend three solid weeks in solitary. You decide that it's better off if she thinks that being in the reformatory is actually safe. You say nothing, letting silence fall, only the distance sound of the characters singing happy tunes in the background.

She sits there, expecting an answer from you. When you don't reply, she huffs and sits back in the seat; her arms crossed over her chest, chewing her gum, and staring straight ahead.

The silence is too much for you and you hastily leave, claiming that you have to use the restroom.

You walk with your hands stuffed deep in the pockets of your leather jacket, the collar flipped up to protect your neck from the cold wind. You get to the back of the drive-in, where the bathrooms are located. Just as you start to head in, you stop and listen to a familiar voice coming from behind the fence.

"I tell you, I don't know what's wrong with that bitch. I swear, if I knew that she wasn't as easy as I heard, I never would have gone after her."

You feel a heat stirring up inside, when you realize that this is Vince, and he is probably talking about Angela. The hate spreads throughout your body, from your heart to your fingertips, where they curl into tight fists.

"I'm sure she'll put out sometime, man. It's Angela Shepard," another voice speaks up.

Vince talks again. "Man, if it weren't for the fact that her brother is not in jail, I'd have my way easy. But getting beat up by Tim Shepard isn't worth a lay."

It's a double insult that makes you see red. You breathe deep breaths, squint your eyes shut real tight to shut out Vince's voice, and try to calm yourself down and stop the shaking in your bones. Once you gain hold of your bearings, you hurriedly walk towards the concessions, where you'll grab some food and then convince Angela to drop the bastard.

You pick up a box of popcorn and two cokes, and pay for them. The drive-in grounds are starting to pick up in action as two girls hops out of a trunk and two guys from opposing gangs circle each other in preparation for a fight.

As you reach in sight of your car, you see Vince and his two buddies standing next to ir. Vince is leaning down, his head halfway through the window, but you can see Angela staring ahead, giving him no notice. His friends in the background grin and smirk as Vince becomes agitated. Then, without warning, he yanks open the car door, and Angela attempts to move to the other side.

He reaches in and grabs her arm. "I said I want to talk to you, Angela."

You immediately put the cokes and popcorn on the trunk of the car. "Get the hell off of my sister, Hamilton," you growl, standing up straight and staring at Vince. He stares at you, sizing you up, deciding whether or not it's worth his time to take you on.

"Get off!" Angela tries to shrug him off, but his grip won't budge. Her face shows a little bit of pain and you struggle to not lose control.

"Look." Vince makes a motion with his hand indicating that he's laying his cards out on the table. "I just want to talk with my girlfriend, savvy?"

"No savvy," you respond and walk closer. "Let go now. I heard you - you have no interest in just talking."

Angela's eyes widen. She glares at Vince and then slaps him across the face.

All it takes is the howls in laughter from his buddies and one glare from Vince to Angela for you to make your move. She shrinks as he raises his hand but before he can hit her back, you jump on top of him. You bring him down to the ground and start aiming your fists at his head.

He manages to get a couple of hits at you, but mostly it's you in power, slugging him right and left, while in the distance you see a crowd starting to form.

The shouts get louder when you are suddenly pulled back, receiving a punch to the face. It takes you a few moments to realize that his buddies have decided to join the fight and it's three on one. It takes you back to the fight in the reformatory, only instead of your roommate, it's your sister and it forces you to fight back even harder.

You take most of the hits, but for an uneven fight, you aren't doing too badly. Then you hear the smash of a bottle, a shout of "Curly!" from Angela and suddenly your head feels real light and you fall to the ground. Immediately you feel the brunt force of boots in your ribs and the taste of metallic blood sitting in your mouth. You take the beating, all the while trying to regain your bearings in order to get back into the fight.

The punches stop, and you hear other grunts in the background. You shake your head, push yourself back to your feet and stare at the sight of Vince and his two buddies walking backwards from the fight, cussing you out as they depart. You look to your right and see Ponyboy, and to your left you see Steve Randle, both breathing heavily.

"Thanks," you mutter, somewhat embarrassed by your defeat.

Ponyboy pats your shoulder. "No problem, man. You were doing good until they decided to bring weapons into the mix." He gazes after the three figures as they grow smaller and smaller in the distance. "Nobody fights fair anymore."

"Shoot." You look around and see Ponyboy's other friend, Two-Bit Mathews walking up, a beer bottle in hand. "Remember back in the day when if you wanted to fight someone, you fought one on one. You fought for pride and rep?"

"That was just year ago, Two-Bit." Ponyboy sighs.

"Yeah, times change, huh, Ponyboy?" Two-Bit cocks his eyebrow.

You shrug and nod to Ponyboy and his friends once again. "Thanks man. I owe ya."

Ponyboy shakes his head. "No you don't."

The crowd has dispersed by now, and as Ponyboy and his friends go back to their seats, you walk over to the car where Angela stands.

"Oh, Curly," she says in that voice that brings you back to the reformatory when she came to tell you that Dallas Winston was dead after being shot down by cops. You listen to the worry in her voice and wonder when she started caring.

You glance up at the screen where the characters are singing in happy voices once again.

"So, uh, what happened in the movie while I was gone?"

Her face changes from worry to amusement and she shakes her head. "I have no idea."

You grab the coke and popcorn off of the back of the car and hand it to her. "Let's go home then."

She smiles and nods. "Okay."

**OOOOO**

You park in the driveway next to Tim's car, and you exhale, leaning back in the seat. It's a weird feeling, avoiding going into your own home because your older brother is there, but you can't help it. You're still pissed at him for kicking you off of the job tonight, and you know that he's going to be pissed at you for making a ruckus about food earlier.

You slightly flinch when Angela's hand touched the back of your head. "You're bleeding." She frowns, pulling her reddened hand away.

"'S nothing," you mutter, and you open the door and climb out.

"What do you mean, it's nothing?" she asks as she climbs out of her own side.

"It means, I'll just clean it when we get inside and it will heal on its own. No big deal, Angel." You look at her pointedly. This has happened before, but for some reason it's like suddenly this idea of fighting is brand new to her.

You open the door and meet Tim, who is lying stretched out on the couch, watching a show on the old television set in the living room. He tilts his head back, catches your eyes and takes in your appearance.

"You get in a fight again?"

Before you can respond, Angela walks in front of you and lightly smacks Tim on the shoulder. "He was doing it for me, in case you would like to know."

At this, Tim sits up, disregarding the show. "Somebody give you trouble, Angela?" he asks.

"Yeah," she starts, crossing her arms over her chest, "but thanks to Curly, he ain't gonna no more." She has this look on her face and with her stance she has this power that manages to even make Tim lay back down on the couch. She uncrosses her arms and lets them drop by her side. "I'm going to bed now."

She goes to walk into the hallway, but stops when Tim stands up, his shadow cast onto the wall, making him seem bigger and more dangerous than he usually does. He walks over to her, gently takes her arm and peers at the growing bruises where Vince had grabbed her roughly.

After she allows him to scrutinize the marks, she yanks her arm out of his grasp and disappears into the hallway. It's just you and Tim now. He doesn't really pay attention, but as you cross the room to head to bed yourself, his voice makes you stop for a moment.

"If you took care of it, why does she have bruises on her arm?"

You choose to ignore him and continue walking, knocking on the bathroom door. The door opens, and Angela is standing at the sink, brushing her teeth. You walk in, toss your leather jacket on the floor and touch the back of your head. It doesn't feel too bad, and most of the bleeding has stopped. You grab an old, stained washcloth off of the rack, wet the end, and pat it gently along the back of your head. Angela finishes brushing her teeth, and she watches you clean the wound, before leaving without making a comment. Without her looking over your shoulder, you take a look into the mirror and take in your appearance.

There is a bruise forming on your cheekbone and left eye, your hair is greased down to your forehead and a tiny bit of blood is coming from a new split lip. You look down, noticing that there is dirt and blood caked underneath your fingernails and even though you've been in this position before, you feel unclean, like it's a stain that cannot be washed away.

You pause for a moment, staring at your dirty face in the mirror.

You think of your parents, who barely show faces out of their bedroom; your roommate, whose face was bloodied as it was smashed into the cement floor over and over; the countless people who you have encountered who don't have faces at all and Dallas Winston, who is now nothing more than a face, a memory.

Frustrated with your own thoughts, you quickly clean up and head to the room that you share with Tim in order to get some sleep.

You change out of your dirty jeans and into an old pair of gym shorts from school. You climb into bed, your body just exhausted from the entire night. It isn't long, though, when Tim comes through the door and climbs in beside you. You sleep with your backs to each other, barely touching, but you can still feel his breathing, inhales and exhales as he begins to fall asleep.

You yourself feel subconsciousness begin to pull you away when you hear Tim mumble.

"I'm proud of you, Curly."

The sentence sits in your mind, and suddenly you're wide-awake again, your head filled with thoughts that won't leave you alone. "About what?" you ask.

The pillows rustle as Tim moves his head. "You taking care of Angela tonight," he answers.

You can't help it. "Why didn't you say that before then? Why didn't you take me with you to meet Frank and Phil tonight?" You hate that you sound like a five year old who keeps asking "why" over and over again.

It's silent for a moment. When he doesn't answer you roll onto your back and nudge his shoulder. "Why not?"

He doesn't answer again, and you sigh. "Fine," you grumble, and roll back onto your side, waiting for sleep that would never come.


	12. Day Dreamer

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders**

**A/N Hey, guess what? It's Monday. Totally did not realize that, even though I did go to class today. Please forgive me. If it's any consolation, I was busy working on the sequel to this story, so ... yeah. Deds to somebluedecember for all of her help with beta-reading. And thanks to White Lion 18 for being such a devoted reviewer.  
**

* * *

A few days later, you're walking down the street, hands in your pockets as you make your way home from the store where you picked up some much-needed cigarettes. The minute you had walked out of the store, you had pulled one out of the carton and lit up. The cloud that settled in your lungs felt natural, and you felt like you could breathe better with them than without them.

"Curly!" You turn around and you see Ponyboy walking up, this time his hands empty of any books. The thought of books makes you think back to the library book that is somewhere in your room, probably underneath the clothes that you toss onto the floor when you get changed.

Ponyboy walks up, his fingers hanging on his belt loops. "Déjà vu, huh?"

"What?" You don't understand what he just said. You need to tell Ponyboy that it would be better if he just speaks English. Of course, that library book that you are supposed to be reading proves that you can't even handle the English language and you get all angry inside. "Shut up," you mutter to yourself.

"Sorry." Ponyboy grins. "Déjà vu," he repeats. "It's French for 'already seen'. Means like 'hey, didn't this happen already?"

"No," you say pointedly. "Last time you were coming home from school so you had your backpack."

Ponyboy's grin falters. "Nevermind." He shakes his head. "Hey, how's that book coming?"

Shit, you were hoping that he was going to forget about that so that you wouldn't have to tell him and tell him that you hadn't even gotten past the first sentence. "S'all right," you mutter.

"Really?" Ponyboy asks. "How far have you gotten?"

You sigh inward. Shit. Now you are really screwed. You think to yourself - you could just lie and tell Ponyboy that you finished it or were halfway done. But then he might ask what you thought about a particular part or, God forbid, the main character's name or something. You decide to just go with the truth, and take a deep breath before speaking.

"Nowhere."

"What?" Ponyboy walks in front of you and turns around so that he is walking backwards, facing you.

"Nowhere," you say louder. You ignore Ponyboy by looking to the side, refusing to catch his gaze.

"So you haven't started?" he asks, a small amount of disappointment in his voice.

You roll your eyes. "Look." You stop and hold out your hands like you're offering everything up. "I tried, all right? Couldn't get past the first fucking sentence, so sue me. Not my fault I'm not a genius like you are."

Ponyboy stops. He is silent for a moment before he speaks up again. "You know, if you needed help, you could have asked."

You scoff. "Look, Curtis, I don't ask for help," you say pointedly.

"Why not?"

You look at him in disbelief. What does he mean, "why not?" It's the center of any hood's life- pride. You don't ask for help for anything, because in the real world all you can count on is yourself.

"Curly." Ponyboy sighs, then looks down the street before turning back to face you again. "I know I'm different, but you still gotta remember, man; we're from the same neighborhood." He gives a small smile. "Maybe not the same street -" You also have to grin, "- but the same neighborhood. I wouldn't sell you out or tell anyone man. I gave you that book because I really thought that you would enjoy it."

You have to hand it to Ponyboy. He may see things differently, but he can still understand where you are coming from. You gulp, a little uneasy. "Okay," you answer.

"Great," he replies. "Let's go get that book."

**OOOOO**

Ponyboy follows you into your house - the couch is stained, the coffee table is missing a leg, and three empty beer bottles sit on the floor next to an ashtray that is littered with cigarette butts.

You feel slightly embarrassed, but you trudge on through, hiding your discomfort. You take a turn into the kitchen where you meet up with Angela, who is sitting on the table with the phone glued to her ear, talking animatedly while twisting the phone cord around her finger.

She meets your gaze and then shifts her eyes to Ponyboy, a smile growing on her face as you lead him out of the kitchen and down the hallway towards your room.

The room that you share with Tim is a little messy, but obviously Tim has been in to clean it up a little bit since it is not as destructive-looking as it was this morning. You walk over to the closet and rummage through the area where you had thrown the book in frustration. Underneath a couple of t-shirts and a pair of jeans, you find the small book and pick it up, holding it loosely in your grasp.

You turn around and see Ponyboy getting situated on the floor. You walk over and hand him the book, but he doesn't take it. "Nope. It's not my book," he says with a grin.

"Curtis," you growl, and try to smack him on the head with the book, but he blocks it with his hands. You sit down next to him and open up the book to the first page. 'Déjà vu?' you think, remembering back to the phrase Ponyboy had used earlier.

"Okay," you mutter before you start reading out loud.

"The moon shines brightly, casting a light on the empty pra-." You pause, not wanting to look up. You feel shame, something that you have never felt about a book before, and you refuse to look at Ponyboy.

His hand comes into your vision. "Prairie," he says, without any hint of humor.

"Okay." You're grateful that he doesn't sound it out slowly like you're stupid. You start over again.

"The moon shines brightly, casting a light on the empty prairie. A strong horse stands in the middle of the field, a black …"

"Silhouette."

"Black silhouette against the white moon."

You continue reading, stopping every now and then, allowing Ponyboy to correct the word before continuing on. It's an easygoing atmosphere and you don't feel like a four-year-old when Ponyboy fixes your mistakes.

The story is interesting too. There's a samurai named Hirotake and he's a warrior in a war that was fought four hundred years ago. Ponyboy tells you that the war that he is fighting in was an actual war, but Hirotake is fictional.

"Fictional?" you ask.

"Means it's not a true story. He's a made-up character," Ponyboy explains.

Hirotake's father was a famous warrior who led many samurai into battle in the previous war. His father was known by many men and famous for his successes in battle. But Hirotake never lived up to his standards, so when he was eighteen he was kicked out and sent to live on the streets with nothing but a horse and a sword. For the first time in your life, you are interested in a book, and you keep reading without wanting to stop.

"Shit," Ponyboy says after you stop once more. You look up at him in disbelief.

"Shit? I'm pretty sure I know how to read 'shit' and that word isn't 'shit'." You grin. "I mean - it starts with a 'w'."

Ponyboy cracks a smile. "Nah, it's almost six. I gotta be home for dinner or Darry'll kill me." He stands up. "If you ever want to read again, let me know."

"Yeah." You look down at the book, semi-hoping that you didn't have to stop here. You look back up at Ponyboy. "You need a ride home or something?"

"Nah, I'll be fine." He starts walking out of the room, and back towards the living room to leave.

You follow after him, making sure that he doesn't run into trouble like your stepdad before he gets to the door. When you reach the kitchen, Tim is sitting at the table, eating a sandwich while talking to Sam on the telephone. He raises his eyebrows when the two of you walk by, but keeps his comments to himself while he listens to Sam on the phone.

"I don't really care what Buck thinks," Tim says as you walk to the front door.

When you get to the front, you are surprised to see it raining heavily outside. The rain is coming down in sheets, and you are barely able to see past your yard. You must have been really into the book to not have noticed it. Ponyboy looks at you with a small smile.

"Can I get a ride?"

**OOOOO**

Once you get back to your house after dropping Ponyboy off, you shut yourself up in your room, grab the book and fling yourself onto your bed. You've gotten through thirty pages with Ponyboy, but you want to get a little farther to see what happens next. Just as you open the book, though, Tim enters the room.

"Curly, get up. I need you to come with me and Sam to Buck's tonight to meet up with some of the guys from Brumly."

You look up, happy that Tim decided to bring you along to the next job. Then you sigh, staring at the book in front of you. But Tim's voice is calling a little louder so you get up, making sure that he doesn't see the book in front of you. "Okay," you call over your shoulder. "I'll meet you in the kitchen in a minute."

**OOOOO**

Tim's driving, one hand on the steering wheel and the other fiddling with the radio that is only giving a static signal because of the heavy rain that is falling outside. When the car reaches Buck's bar, Tim shifts the gear into park and turns off the car before turning to you.

"Listen, I'm bringing you along as back-up just in case shit goes down. Unless I throw a punch, you don't say nothing, don't do nothing, and don't insult anybody no matter what they say to you, got it?" Tim orders sternly.

You nod. "Sure thing, Tim," you say, clutching your jacket close to you. Its still pouring outside and Tim has parked a little far from the door. Tim nods then opens up the door, slowly getting out to show that a little rain doesn't bother him.

The atmosphere inside the bar is slow. On account of the rain it's not very busy, which is perfect for business like what is going down tonight. Tim walks over to the bar while you follow behind him.

Sam is already at the bar, talking to Frank and Phil when the two of you walk up. There is another man there, older than everyone else, including Buck and he's wearing a black coat that reminds you of those late-night mafia movies that are on the television.

"Benny." Tim greets the man, shaking his hand in a tough, vice-like grip.

"Tim," Benny replies before gesturing to an empty bar stool. You remain standing, just in case Tim needs you to be on your feet, literally.

"Buck!" Benny calls, and almost immediately Buck is at the end of the bar, holding out two beers. At first you think one of those is for you, but Benny hands one to Tim and then keeps one for himself. "How have you been, Tim?" Benny asks.

"Let's cut to the chase, Russo," Tim growls. "I told your boys here that we had a deal. My boys will work with the cars and guarantee y'all a fixed race. Your boys are supposed to actually bring in the people to bet on the race. Now you're thinking about quitting on me?"

"Now look, Tim," Benny says sternly. "I'm all for the idea, but I just want to make sure that, after you get your cash and split, we won't be stuck with all the angry people."

"That's your problem," Tim answered. "I made sure that my boys were going to be safe. I'm sorry that Phil and Frank here didn't think of that themselves."

"You're one son of a bitch, Tim," Frank says, standing up so that the chair moves backwards, scratching the wooden floor.

Immediately the air tenses and you curl your fists in apprehension of a fight. Tim stands up, his own chair scratching the wooden floor and he stands in front of you and Sam, his arms across his chest. For a second, instead of Tim you see Hirotake, the all-powerful soldier who can lead people into a battlefield and beat anyone who stands up to him -

A punch to the face startles you out of your daydream. All of a sudden you realize that there are fists flying everywhere and in the middle of the fight Tim yells, "Curly, fucking fight, will ya?"

You jump into the fray, landing a punch on Phil, while Sam takes on Frank, and Tim fights Benny. Buck is yelling for you guys to stop it, but he stays safe behind the counter of the bar. Eventually, Tim manages to beat Benny down to the floor and sock him one in the face. Once they realize the their leader is getting his face beat in by Tim, Frank and Phil back off. After a few more hits to send his message through, Tim hoists Benny up by his collar and shoves him against the wall.

"Now listen here. Your boys are gonna to bring the people to the races and get them to bet on the right cars. We'll fix the cars so you get your money and we get ours. Whatever happens after that is your problem. And if you have a problem with that then I can finish the job here." His words are threatening and Benny's face shows fear, something that Tim will use to his advantage.

"Fine, fine," Benny says.

Tim shoves him against the wall one last time before letting him go. "Anything else?" he asks as he backs up, Sam and you right behind him.

"No, man," Frank says while Benny stands against the wall watching Tim closely.

"Good," Tim replies menacingly before turning around. As he passes you and Sam to lead you to the door, he grabs your hair and moves his mouth to your ear.

"Don't fucking daydream like that again, you hear me?" he says in a low voice.

You nod and he lets you go. Sam gives you a small smile before following Tim out the door while you wonder if Hirotake was that mean to his own soldiers.


	13. Amazing Race

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Outsiders. **

**A/N: Sorry about not updating last night, things got kind of busy. I'll still be updating on Monday, though. Thanks to somebluedecember for all of her help with beta-reading. Oh - and we're a little over halfway done with the story. Please leave a review!  
**

* * *

Two days later, you and the rest of the Shepard gang are standing in front of an abandoned field that, in a few hours, will be filled with people cheering on the cars as they race down the strip. Tim stands in front with Sam, talking with Frank and Phil, while Benny stands near the edge of the group, his eyes trained on Tim.

After a while, people start to show up and the cars that are going to race begin to line up near the starting line. When all of the drivers are talking to Frank and Phil, Tim motions to you with his hand.

"Okay. There is a slight change in plans. Frank and Phil are going to get the betting money, then give it to us to hold. I want you to hold it while the rest of us fix the cars, got it?"

You nod, excited to be an important part of Tim's plan. With the way that Tim is talking, the gang could be making a pretty big haul tonight. That's a lot of money that you are going to be holding. You feel really important and a sense of euphoria flows through your veins.

"How are you going to get the money back to Frank and Phil? What do you want me to do with it during the race, Tim?" you ask.

"Don't worry about it, kid. Haven't I always taken care of you?" Tim asks.

You smile and nod. Tim has always watched out for you, even if you feel like he treats you like an ordinary lackey sometimes. You remember back to when he took you to the Dairy Queen after the fridge was empty and there was no money to buy any food.

"Here." He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small handgun. "Take this, just in case."

You can't believe Tim has a gun, let alone giving _you _it. "I don't know, Tim," you say, as your stomach begins to turn nervously. "I don't think I can shoot nobody."

"You don't gotta shoot nobody. Just keep it in your pocket and if someone comes near you, pull it slightly out of your pocket, show them the handle and they'll back off."

"What if they don't back off?"

"God, Curly-," he starts saying but you cut him off.

"Nevermind, Tim. I got it." You don't want him to take away this – your moment of glory. You reach for the handgun, but he pulls it out of your reach before you can grasp it.

He eyes you for a moment, like he's deciding whether or not you are actually trustworthy enough for this. You give him an even stare, hoping that he doesn't take the money and the gun at the last minute and give it to someone else.

Finally, he nods and hands over the gun. "Don't fuck up, Curly."

"I won't," you whisper to yourself. Because you won't. This will be the proudest moment of your life. You won't back down to anyone.

The races begin, and one after one the cars win according to the way Tim had said they would. Near the end of the night you have almost two hundred dollars in your pocket, and you are starting to feel a little apprehensive. Even though you are feeling very significant in Tim's scheme of his, you are nervous about carrying this much cash. People have been killed for less.

Without warning, seven police cars pull up to the field, and people start running. You, with a load of cash and a handgun, want to follow them, but Tim stops you by catching you across the chest with his arm.

"Don't leave," he orders. "They can't search you without reason."

No one else in the gang is leaving, and neither is anyone from the Brumly Boys, which you find odd because they always run at the first sight of cops. You are starting to panic.

"Tim…" you start to whine softly, practically begging him to let you leave or at least take the money that's in your pocket.

"Don't, Curly."

"What do we have here?" one of the cops asks as he walks up to the two gangs standing in the field.

"Nothing, officer," Tim replies, his thumbs in his belt loops. "Just out for some racing, no harm there, right?"

"I don't know," the cop says slyly, before turning to the Brumly Boys. "You boys have anything to tell us?"

Benny steps forward. "The Shepard gang here was illegally taking bets from the people watching. They fixed the cars and took all of the money. There's 'bout two hundred dollars in that group of boys over there." Benny points at the Shepard gang as a whole, but you can just see his finger pointing directly at you.

Oh shit, you think, and you almost wet your pants. Tim, for once in your life, is completely shocked. The rest of the gang is also stunned, as they look at each other in question.

"Okay, thank you. You boys can go." The officer smiles as the Brumly Boys make their way off to their cars that are parked next to the field.

"Son of a bitch," Tim curses.

Sam looks over at Tim. "They set us up?" he asks.

"Looks like it." Tim clenches his fists.

"Tim…" you start to mumble once again, hoping that he can get you out of this.

"Keep the money, Curly. You're sixteen, they can't do anything to you."

"What about the gun, Tim. The gun!" You wonder how he can't see the problem you have here. You have a fucking gun in your pocket!

"Keep quiet, Curly. It ain't loaded."

For a moment, the entire situation clears your head. "Why ain't it loaded?"

"You think I trust you with a gun _and_ a bullet? Fuck no. Now shut up. I told you already; they can't do nothing to ya."

"Except put me away in the reformatory again, asshole," you say quietly to Tim.

"Just keep it. They can't prove anything. And whatever you do, don't say a word." Tim stares straight ahead as the cop walks over to where you and Tim stand.

"Okay, let's start with you two." The officer points to Sam and Tim. The cops pull them over to the car and pat them down, looking for the money. The money in your pocket that seems to be getting heavier and heavier with every second that passes by.

"You're next, son." The cop grabs Jimmy, who tries to argue his rights.

"Don't I got an amendment that says I don't have to be searched or somethin'?" Jimmy asks.

"Sure you do. And we have a right that allows us to search for and seize any potential evidence when we have probable cause."

You arm is being pulled when you realize that the cop is searching you next. You look over at Tim who shakes his head, telling you to be quiet.

Your heart is beating faster and faster. You wonder what Tim is going to do that will get you out of this jam. When the cop's hand pats the pocket of your leather jacket and feels the money, your heart sinks.

"What do we have here?" the officer asks, as he pulls out the wad of bills. He shows it to the rest of the cops. "Does this look like a two hundred dollars to you?"

"Sure does," another officer says as he comes up and takes the money. He looks at you. "I think you should come with us down to the precinct and tell us what you know about this money, son."

"Wait, what is this?"

Oh shit. He's found the gun. You can hear the closing of the prison doors in the back of your mind. You've never been so fucking scared in your entire life.

"Charles Shepard. You're being arrested for fraud and the illegal possession of a firearm." He starts saying your rights but it's just a murmur in the back of your clouded mind. You don't even realize that your hands are being cuffed behind your back. All you can think about is the gun, the reformatory, and how long you are going to be put away this time.

You are jolted out of your thoughts when the policeman starts to move you. You look at Tim, who is turned away, talking with Sam. When you realize that he isn't going to step in, that he isn't going to save you, that he isn't going to stop you from being taken away, your heart breaks. The officers push you into the police car and lock the door.

**OOOOO**

"All right, Shepard, first things first. Where did you get the money?"

You are sitting in an interrogation room with two cops. One is sitting across from you with his folder open in front of him, and the other is pacing back and forth in the room with his hands laced behind his back. He turns around and lays his hands flat on the table.

"C'mon, Shepard. We found you with four hundred twenty dollars in your right pocket. That's not tooth fairy money; where did you get it?"

Even though Tim didn't meet your gaze when you were put into the police car, you don't say a word. You think it's only a matter of time before he comes in and manages to get you out. It's illegal for the cops to hold you in jail without charging you, right? He's probably in the main office right now, talking to the secretary, which is why the cops are so eager to get your confession now. You keep your mouth shut.

The officer groans. "Shepard," he growls.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say, at least giving them an answer.

The officer standing up walks around the table and punches you in the face. Immediately the other officer jumps up and grabs his friend, pulling him back. You don't understand how the cop could hit you like that … isn't that against the law, or something?

"Mike, calm down," the other officer says. "You're not going to get anything out of him if you beat his head into a pulp."

"You don't know that Terry," Mike replies. "I bet you this kid will talk once we show him that we mean business."

"Just let it go, man." Terry pushes Mike to the back wall then comes back and sits down across from you again. "Look, Shepard. To be honest, we don't really care about you. Now, I don't know if you know, but while you were in the reformatory for the past six months, Tim has been making a little bit of a ruckus in the neighborhood. We want to bring him in for that, and the only way we can do that is if we can bring him in legally. Now, if you just tell us that this whole thing was Tim's idea, that he was the leader in this operation, then we can let you go."

"And sell out my brother?" you ask incredulously. "I'm not going to sell out Tim."

"Sure, kid," Mike says from the back wall. "Don't sell out your brother. The guy who didn't even look at you when we put you in the police car?"

You look at him in surprise.

Mike laughs. "Yeah, I noticed. I also noticed how you kept talking to him before we started searching. Tell me, kid. What type of older brother would let his younger brother, juvenile or not, take the rap for his crimes?"

You shake your head. "Tim's on his way, he's going to get me out sooner or later. He's probably just trying to get through all of the legal mumbo jumbo that you guys throw out there," you reason, half with Mike and half with yourself.

"Tim hasn't called the precinct yet. As far as we know, he's probably at home watching _Leave it to Beaver_," Terry says. You look at him closely. Even though he is an officer, he has a look of pity on his face, like he is sorry that you are in this position.

"No, Tim will come and get me," you say again. "Maybe not tonight, but by tomorrow he will."

The door opens and another officer walks in, beckoning to Mike. Mike walks over and talks with the officer in a low tone. They both look at you and then the new officer leaves.

"Okay, Shepard," he says. "Maybe your brother will come tomorrow. But for tonight, we're going to have to put you in a cell." He comes around the table and pulls you to a standing position. "C'mon." He tugs you along, out of the door and down the hallway.

"You're holding me?" you ask incredulously. "On what?"

"Fraud," Mike answers. "It's a felony, in case you didn't know that."

The word felony rings in your ears and you wish Tim would just walk through that interrogation room door to bring you home immediately.

You expect to be put in a normal cell with the drunkards and hobos that have been picked up by the police. Instead, Mike leads you down a white hallway and you quickly realize what's happening. The officer who came into the interrogation room had come in to let Mike know about your fear. Instantly, you start fighting.

"No! I didn't do anything wrong! I'm not going in there!"

It takes Mike and three other guards to drag you to a solitary cell, with you punching and kicking the entire way.

"No!" you yell. You don't want to go in there. You hate being alone. You hate being by yourself.

But they throw you inside the cell and slam the door in your face, and once again you wish that Tim were with you to tell you that everything is going to be okay.


	14. Big House

**Disclaimer: The most amazing S. E. Hinton owns The Outsiders - which establishes the fact that I do not.**

**A/N: Deds to somebluedecember for all of her help! Please review, you guys, it would be fantastic!  
**

* * *

You've been waiting for so long to be let go. The guard has come by three times with your meals, which means that it is sometime in the evening and that you have been held for twenty-four hours. It's been twenty-four hours, but you still hold hope that Tim will come for you soon.

You start pacing around in your room, unable to stand still.

The door opens, and you stare at the back wall. "What do you want?" you ask. "It hasn't been that long since you brought me dinner. Is Tim here?"

"No," a familiar voice says.

You turn around, and you realize that the voice belongs to Harvey. He looks older than when you last saw him, his eyes are more tired and his face is sad.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, confused.

"Curly." Harvey's voice is heavy. "The officers called me this morning. They told me about your situation."

"There is no situation!" you yell. "Tim's coming!"

"No, he's not," Harvey says roughly. "Tim is not coming. He would have done something - called the police station, come to the precinct, caused a ruckus - but he hasn't done anything, Curly. Stop living in your brother's shadow."

You stop pacing and sit down on the bed, cradling your face in your hands. You are completely torn. Before, you had complete faith in Tim. In the reformatory, you stood up for him, took pride in the name, Shepard. But when you got out, you increasingly felt like he was using you, like you didn't have his respect. Then, last night at the races, he specifically told you to keep the money. Now he hasn't come to get you.

"Why?" you ask, to no one in particular.

The bed creaks as Harvey sits next to you, placing his hand on your shoulder. "He might be your older brother, Curly, but he has his own priorities. Are you going to take his fall because he told you to? Or are you gonna become your own person?"

You are silent. Harvey stands up.

"I'll be back in the morning, Curly. For your answer."

You don't say anything; you just stare at the wall in front of you as Harvey leaves, shutting the door behind him.

**OOOOO**

You've been thinking about your problem the whole night. You don't know what to choose. Are you going to turn in Tim or take a sentence? You don't know which would be worse - Tim's anger or the thought of going back to juvie for God knows how long.

You hate to admit it to yourself, but the thought of going back to the reformatory - where Billy died and you were locked up all alone – scares you.

Then you think of Tim. If you took the rap you would suddenly obtain all of the glory that you have always wanted. Respected by all, the seat at the right hand of your brother would finally be yours.

The other option would be to turn your brother in … you will be run out of the city for sure. Tim would disown you without a thought and you would be all by yourself. Just like solitary only without the walls. You will be alone as a free man.

It tears you up inside.

Your stomach turns and your hands feel clammy. Without knowing you wrap your arms around yourself in a desperate attempt to keep warm.

"Okay. Okay," you mutter to yourself. You squeeze your eyes real tight like the answer is written on the inside of your eyelids. A knot grows in your throat and for the first time in forever tears begin to fall.

You feel pathetic, but you can't help it. Several days of being on edge and a tough choice has finally made you crack. Sniffing, you wipe your eyes with your arm hoping to stop the tears, but, if anything, you just cry harder. A sob escapes your throat and you wince at the sound of weakness. You don't know what to choose and you wish you had someone to tell you what to do.

It's the longest night of your life.

**OOOOO**

There is a knock on the door. You look up as Harvey walks in with a set of handcuffs in his hands. You eye them warily.

"Well, Curly. Are you gonna walk outta here a free man?" Harvey asks.

Standing up, you take a deep breath. You have made your decision and you walk towards your fate.

**OOOOO**

"Charles Jonah Shepard."

_The courtroom seems so much bigger than last time_, you think as you stare around in wonder.

"You are being charged with one count of fraud for more than two hundred dollars, one count of possession of an illegal firearm. How do you plead?"

You swallow a lump in your throat. "Guilty."

The judge deliberates for a few minutes, shifting through your files. He glances up at you every so often with a look of disgust. Finally, after what feels like forever, he closes the file, takes off his glasses and places them on the desk. He interlaces his fingers and lets his chin rest on them. He stares at you for a few seconds before taking a deep breath.

"Mr. Shepard. Do you have any idea what you have done?"

To be honest, you don't. It was Tim who thought up the whole idea, but you keep that to yourself.

"I sentenced you not even eight months ago to a six month imprisonment in the juvenile rehabilitation center." His voice carries waves of anger directed at you. You can hear how he thinks that you are a disgrace to humanity, a failure to society, and a waste of space that doesn't even deserve his attention.

"Looking at your records from your _rehabilitation_." He sneers the last word. "You were in constant fights, punished in solitary confinement and failed to pass any educational examinations that were given during your stay."

Exams? You don't remember taking any exams. They must have been given during your time in solitary. But the judge is on a rant and you keep quiet.

"You were guilty of stupid, teenage rebellion crimes back then. Not even two months after you have been released - only God knows why you were let back out on the streets - you are involved with fraud and the possession of the firearm." He points his finger at you, his eyebrows furrowed in anger. "You are a danger to this society, Mr. Shepard. And I am not going to be easy on you this time."

_C'mon,_ you think._ Just hand over the year in juvie and get over it._

"Do you have anything to say for yourself, Mr. Shepard? Anything at all?"

You can think of a million things. You want to tell the judge how you couldn't stand by as your roommate was beaten to death, how you still really don't know how to read. You want to tell him that you have a sister who cares about you and a friend who believes that you can be something. You want to tell him how your brother is the most important person to you in this world, and that's why you're in trouble again so soon.

But you just slowly shake your head.

"Fine." The judge raises his gavel. "Charles Jonah Shepard. I hereby sentence you to fifteen months in the state penitentiary. If it won't happen in the reformatory, maybe you will learn your lesson in the big house." He brings his gavel down. The sound echoes throughout the courtroom and your heart freezes.

"St ... state?" you stutter.

The policeman begins tugging your arm but, you ignore him and keep staring at the judge, who has moved on to the next file.

"State?" The world is blurry like a dream. You hear the murmur of the crowd but you can't see any people. "State?" you say again.

"C'mon, kid." You start to walk, but it's robotic. Your mind buzzes and you feel like your going to throw up.

"Wait, I'm sixteen! They can't send me to no pen," you plead to the officer who ignores you.

You are led to the cells beneath the courtroom to wait for the bus that will take you to Oklahoma City. After locking you in your cell, the officer grasps the bars and looks at you. "Kid, you really didn't think you were gonna get a hard sentence, did ya?" The cop smirks. "You weren't even out for two months and you got into bigger trouble than before. You know why we send kids to the reformatory?"

To keep them safe from the psycho people in the pen? You shake your head.

"Because there kids can be rehabilitated." He says the last word slowly like you are an idiot. "That means that they can get better. The judge has given up on you, so you're gettin' sent upstate. Hope that two hundred dollars was worth it." The officer leaves and the sound of his keys jingling grows faint.

Bile rises up your throat and you rush to the toilet in the corner of the room.

**OOOOO**

For one, it's a lot bigger than juvie.

Four stories tall, Oklahoma State Penitentiary creates a massive shadow that engulfs you as you step off the bus. Restrained by cuffs and shackles, dressed in an orange jumpsuit three sizes too large and your hair cleanly shaven, you feel like a kid even more than before.

"C'mon, Shepard." The cop lightly hits your back with his nightstick.

You take one small step, then another. The cop hits you again – this time with more force – and you start to walk faster toward the slowest fifteen months of your life. There is a man standing at the top of the steps, waiting for you. He is wearing a pair of aviator glasses that hides his eyes, but you can feel them searching all over you. Even in your extra-large jumpsuit you feel naked as the day you were born.

"Charles Shepard."

"Curly." You wince. It was an involuntary reaction - giving your nickname - but the officer is immediately pissed. He steps down to your level and grabs your chin roughly. You can see his eyes now. Through the dark glasses you see blue eyes colder than Dallas Winston's.

"What did you say? Are you playing smart with me, junior?"

N … No, sir," you stutter. His face is so close to yours you can feel his thick mustache touching your nose. You feel no reassurance from this man like you did from Harvey. You feel like you can't relate to this man. You feel deathly afraid of him.

He slaps your head. "Let me get one thing straight, _Charles_." He spits out your name. "You are lower than _dirt_. You are lower than _shit_. You are a piece of white trash so worthless that your momma is probably celebratin' at home that she don't have to put up with you no more."

Someone once said that words can't ever hurt you, but your stomach tumbles violently at the verbal abuse. For a second time in twenty-four hours you want to cry, you want to throw up, you want to lie down and just wish that everything would cut short.

"Now you're stuck with me." He smiles and his hot breath makes bile rise up your throat.

He pulls back and looks at the guys standing behind you. "Bring him in, fellas. Let's see if he's got what it takes to live in the big house."


	15. Lonely Boy

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders.**

**A/N: So, this coming week is Spring Break and I'm going to be without Internet for the duration of it. Therefore, this is going to be my last update until next Monday - as in, the Monday after this coming one. To make up for it, I'm giving you guys an extra long chapter. Hope you like! Dedications to somebluedecember for her amazing beta-ing skills. Please review!  
**

* * *

"You're a scrawny lil' thang, aren't ya?"

Your roommate is a six-and-a-half-foot-tall black guy in his mid thirties. Even on his dark skin you can see the ink of prison tattoos decorating his arms. His biceps look wider than your face and you struggle to hold a tough look. You wonder if the warden did this on purpose.

"How old are ya?"

"Sixteen," you say with some enforcement, like you aren't scared of anything.

He tilts his head sideways as if he's trying to examine you like a piece of art. It makes you uneasy and you try as hard as possible to keep your knees from knocking together because of your nerves.

"You scared?"

"No." Somehow you feel some of your old self come back and your answer sounds sure. You let out a breath that you didn't even know you were holding and let your shoulders lie back. You may look relaxed, but deep down inside your nerves are shaking like the tremors of an earthquake.

"Hm." He looks at you quizzically. Then his head falls back and he lets out a loud, deep laugh. "Ahaha! Man, you're a tuff kid. You gotta name?"

"Curly."

He tilts his head again. "You can use more 'n one word in a sentence, ya know. Don't cost nothin'."

You don't know what to say to that so you keep silent. Worried, you bite the inside of your lip.

"Shoot, kid. Curly?" he asks, like he doesn't believe that is what you go by. You used to think that the name 'Charlie' made you sound like a pansy. Now that you think about it, 'Curly' isn't that much better.

"What's your real name, kid?"

You don't really know what to tell him, so you just shrug your shoulders and hope for the best. "Charles Shepard."

"Shepard, huh?" He smiles.

You nod. "Yeah. Tim's my older brother."

"Who?"

"Tim. Tim Shepard." You stare at him, wondering if he has never heard of Tim before. Hasn't everyone?

He shrugs. "Never heard of him. He done time here?"

You pause. Actually, you're the first one in the family to do time in the pen. Tim had only turned eighteen a year and a half ago and he's been keeping low since then. Except for the incident that got you here in the first place, anyway.

"Kid?"

"No, he hasn't." You look back up. He's smiling again.

"Well." He holds out his hand. "Mah name's Ace. Pleasure ta meet ya, Shepard."

**OOOOO**

"Shepard!"

It's hard to get used to being called by Shepard after you've been known as Curly or Little Shepard for your entire life. Every time someone calls your name you want to look around for Tim, but so far you've managed to play it cool.

You hold tightly to your tray and walk over to where Ace is sitting with a few other guys, all at least in their late twenties, bulging biceps and prison tattoos alike. You want to impress these guys so you keep a tough face while cautiously sliding into a seat next to Ace. Before you can even touch your food the guy from across your seat places his milk on your tray.

"Ace is right, youse a scrawny kid. Drink up."

You don't know what to make of him just giving you his milk. He's one of the biggest guys at the table so you're afraid to accidently piss him off. Playing it safe, you mumble "thanks" then pick up a fork and start to eat.

"So what you in for?" the guy asks.

"Um, fraud and firearm possession," you say timidly. You curl your toes in your boots and wonder if this is what Twitch felt like when you met him for the first time.

"Fraud, huh?" He smiles. "You smart?"

You shake your head. "Nah. If I was smart, I wouldn't be here, right?"

"Whoa, shit. He can talk." Another one of the guys laughs, and you shrink a little inside your jumpsuit.

The guy across from you silences him with a glare then, turns back to you. "Shepard, right?" he asks, holding out his hand. "Wayne." You shake his hand.

Ace sniffs as he takes a bite of his sandwich. "We call him Lex Luther," he says with a straight face. He grins as Wayne tries to kick him from under the table.

A conversation begins, but you stay out of it. As much as you want to know more about these guys – and as nice as they've treated you so far - you still feel like you don't belong.

"So, what about it, Shepard?" You look up; unaware that Wayne asked you a question.

"Sorry, what did you say?"

Wayne gives a teasing grin and turns back around to his buddies. They start talking again and you feel like you're the butt of a joke. You've never felt so alone in your life.

"Uh-oh." Ace looks down at his food. "Sergeant Asshole is coming."

You don't know who "Sergeant Asshole" is, but you have a pretty good idea. His footsteps are growing louder and your heart quickens. You don't dare look up, even if there was a hundred-percent chance it's Harvey instead.

His shadow pauses over the table and you struggle not to cower under his gaze. You steadily open the milk that Wayne gave you and take a sip. He stands there for a few seconds, but to you it feels like eternity. Finally, the shadow moves on and the sound of the footsteps grows faint.

Ace nudges your foot. "Don't worry, Shepard. He treats everyone like shit."

But you feel lower than shit.

**OOOOO**

As you lay down for bed that night you feel afraid. You feel afraid of the officer, of your roommate, of everyone else living around you. You didn't even think it was possible, but you feel even more alone than before.

Curiosity beats your fear for a moment, though, and you ask a question that has been sitting in your mind all day.

"Ace," you whisper.

The burly man underneath you snorts. "Shepard? Ya say somethin'?" You hope you didn't just wake him up.

"What are you in for?" you ask.

"Mmmm. Murder," he says casually.

_What a coincidence_, you think. The both of your roommates would be in for murder.

"Did you mean to?" You hate to ask the question, but you just have to know.

"What did you mean, did I mean to?" He sounds more awake. "'Course I did. Those motherfucka's had it coming to them."

"Oh okay." You turn around so that you are facing the wall.

"Why, Shepard? Did you mean to commit fraud and carry a firearm?" he laughs and goes back to sleep. It's a question that you're not supposed to answer but you do anyway, if anything, for your own benefit.

"No."

**OOOOO**

You keep to yourself for the following weeks. You eat three meals a day, play a little bit of poker and lift weights since it's all you can do in the pen.

You don't make any trouble and you don't venture out of the small group of guys that you hang out with.

"Hey, Shepard. You know what today is?" Ace asks while you sit on your bed, smoking.

"Umm." You don't, actually. "Your birthday?"

"Ahaha!" Ace belts out that loud laugh that he is famous for. "No, fool! Though it is comin' up though." He places his finger on his chin and gazes thoughtfully. "Hope my momma 'members."

You crack a grin. You have to admit, Ace is a pretty cool roommate to have. You've been lucky that way. He's scary up front, but he treats you nicer than Tim has in a long time.

"Today's your meeting with the warden."

Your cigarette almost falls out of your mouth. "What?"

"Yeah, man. Ya been here for two weeks, ain't ya?"

You pull yourself to the edge of the bed and look at the calendar on the wall. "Shit," you mutter. It really has been two weeks.

"Time flies, don't it, brother?"

"Yeah, I guess." You're not sure what to make of it. On one hand, your sentence is going by faster than you expected. On the other hand, you still haven't had any contact with Tim and it's been two fucking weeks. You look at Ace.

"When do I gotta meet him?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "I dunno. He'll come around or shout your name through the intercom. Depends on the mood he's in."

Since your first day here you've only seen the warden from afar. And you want to keep it that way. The whole idea of meeting him in his office – by yourself – has you shaking in your boots.

"Charles Shepard!" The intercom ends on a screech and you hear a few groans form the guys outside your room. Ace gives you a small smile.

"Good luck, kid."

**OOOOO**

"Well,_ Charles_." He's using your full first name on purpose to get a rise out of you. You don't take the bait. "You've been well-behaved these first two weeks. Wonder why you can't do it in the real world. You still scared, son?"

You remain silent. If you tell the truth and say yes, he'll win. If you say no, you're afraid of what he's going to say to make you even more scared.

He leans back in his chair, his hands resting behind his head.

"Well, we have this thing here, Charles. After the first two weeks if you don't cause any problems then you get some privileges. Think of them as incentives for good behavior, okay?"

You give a small nod.

"You can have one phone call a week. If you don't create any problems in the next two weeks then you can have you first visitor the week after. Do we understand each other, Shepard?" The words he says are almost nice, but he says them in a sarcastic scowl.

"Yes, sir."

He gives a small grin. But it's nothing like a grin from Sam or Ponyboy. He grins because he knows that he has power over you. "That's good, Shepard. I like how you watch your manners now. Don't get me wrong - I still think you are the scum of the Earth and I still think that you should be locked in here for the rest of eternity."

Swallowing a lump in your throat, you hope that you will be dismissed soon. Lucky for you, it comes true.

"All right, boy. We're done. Git."

**OOOOO**

The beeps sound each time you press a button. When you dial the last number, you hold the phone to your ear in anticipation.

"C'mon, pick up," you mutter to youself. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon."

The ringing finally stops and a voice appears on the phone.

"Hello?"

_Thank God it's Angela_, you think. "Angel, it's-."

"Curly!"

You blink. It's been a while since anyone has called you Curly, but you only stumble for a moment. "Yeah, it's me. I just got phone privileges. Is Tim there?"

"No, he's out with Sam. Curly, I went to your court date, did you see me?"

"What?" You hadn't even thought to look for anyone during your sentencing. Your heart feels warm though, just knowing that she had come. "Was Tim there?"

She pauses for a moment, and you find out the answer without her telling you. "No. He was busy with the Brumly Boys. It's war out here. People are getting jumped every day."

"I bet. Listen, Angel. What is Tim doing about my situation?"

"Curly." Her tone is soft. "I told him, but he just said -" She cuts off.

"Angela? Angela!" _What did he say?_

"One second, Curly." You pause and try to listen in the background. Then it hits you, she's talking to Tim.

"Tim!" you yell. "Angela, give the fucking phone to Tim!"

"Shut the hell up, Curly. Don't you yell at me." Her voice turns away. "No, Tim don't-."

"Curly."

It's him. There are so many emotions running through you. You're angry that he made you keep the money and the gun. You're sad that he didn't bother to come to your sentencing. You're desperate for him to come to Oklahoma City, bust down the gate and bring you home.

"Tim." It's all you can say. You struggle to keep your voice from cracking but it can't stop the lump in your throat or the tears threatening to fall.

"Look, kid. I'm sorry that you got stuck with the money, but there was no other way. You understand that, don't you?"

You don't, but you mumble a small yes anyway. You figure it's all part of this huge plan that Tim has.

"I didn't know they were gonna throw you in the pen, either. Shit, I didn't even know that they could do that."

You want to ask, 'Why not?' but you don't. You trust Tim.

Instead, you bring up the question that has been burning in your mind since that night. "So what's the plan?"

"What plan?"

"The plan to get me out of here. You know I've been sentenced fifteen months, right?"

"Yeah, I heard. You do good behavior and maybe you'll be out early." Your stomach drops. What Tim just said implies that you are supposed to serve the sentence and forget all about it. But that can't be right. Tim is supposed to fix this.

"Wait, what? Tim -" You stop. You don't know how to put what you are feeling into words.

"Look, I'm sorry things turned out the way they did. But this ain't the movies, Curly. I can't just get a spoon and fucking dig you out."

You can't decide what to do. You are torn between yelling at him, and telling him that this is all his fault. But you don't know if you can yell at your older brother.

"Get me Angela." It's the only thing that you can say.

You hear Tim hand over the phone to Angela. You wait until she talks before you start speaking.

"Angel. Can you do me a favor?"

"Yeah, Curly. What do you want?"

It takes you a few seconds before you respond. "Can you send me a letter or something? It looks like I'm gonna be here for a while. It'd be nice if I had something … from home."

"Sure, Curly. I'll do that right now. Anything else?"

"Nah." You take a deep breath. "Thanks, Angel."

"Are you gonna call next week?" Her voice sounds sad.

You think about it. When the warden gave you phone privileges, the first person you thought about was Tim. But, now seeing as you're more or less abandoned, you don't want to talk to Tim for as long as possible.

There is one other person you need to talk to, though, now that you think about it.

"Curly?"

You clear your throat and turn your attention back to the phone. "Um, I gotta call someone else next week. I'll call you the week after, okay? Send me paper and stuff in the mail."

"Okay. Take care of yourself, Curly."

"I will."

The phone line clicks and your one call ends. But now you know that Tim isn't coming to get you and you really are alone. It amazes you how alone you can be, and then - like you didn't even know it was possible - another person leaves you.

"C'mon, Shepard. Back to the block." The guard is waiting patiently near the door.

You hang up the phone and hold your tight fists down by your side. They're shaking from anger and you just need a few seconds to explode. _He's not coming_, you think.

"Fuck!" you yell, and punch the concrete wall hard. You feel your knuckles smash and pain shoot up your arm, but you don't register any pain. Taking a few steps backwards and a few deep breaths, you calm down. He's not coming. You keep your head down in resignation and walk towards the door, not bothering to look at the guard's reaction.

He's not fucking coming.

Instead of heading back to the cellblock you go to the gym, hoping to let off some steam. You're furious, but not exactly sure what you are pissed about. At first you think that it's because Tim isn't coming. But you've done sentences before. Why should this be any different?

Then it hits you.

That wasn't _your_ crime. This isn't _your _sentence. _You_ shouldn't be here.

Tim should.

The realization makes you drop the weights and they fall to the ground in with a loud clang.

You've been used by your own brother.

After so many years of devotion, he just pushed you out into the cold. You always waited for him to help you. He taught you how to tie your shoes, how to use a switchblade, how to defend yourself.

You just never thought that you would have to defend yourself from him.


	16. Common Enemy

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders.**

**A/N: Yeah, I wasn't supposed to be updating until next week. Apparently the church I'm staying at is nothing like the one that Ponyboy and Johnny stayed at because it has WIFI! Get load of that, right? I'm still going to be really busy, so I'm going to update again next Monday. In the meantime, please review! Oh - and thanks so much to somebluedecember for all of her help!**

* * *

You're lighting up a smoke when someone grabs you roughly and pushes your back up against a wall. He has blond hair and a crooked nose. His smile has nothing nice about it.

"So," the guy says slyly. "Shepard, huh?"

The voice is familiar but you can't place it. You're almost positive that you've never met this guy before either. If you have then it was in brief passing and you wouldn't have offended him.

"Yeah. What about it?" You have to remain cool even though you're worried.

"Why don't we play a poker game, huh?"

Now you're confused. What does he want a poker game with you for? You're not sure if 'poker game' stands for something else in the big house, so you don't answer.

"I'll take that as a yes. Let's go."

Shit. This is not good. He drags you over to a group of guys who all look at you with predatory eyes. Despite just lifting heavy weights for the past hour you feel extremely small.

You feel better when you see Ace and Wayne sitting at the table, a pack of old cards sitting in the middle.

The guy pulls you into a seat and the group snickers. You hate being used like this, but you can't do anything about it so you just go with the flow.

You've played cards before. You haven't met a greaser who doesn't play cards once in a while. But at home, and even in the reformatory, you only played with guys that you know and who you trusted. Even your few games with Ace and Wayne were more fun – not high stakes were involved. But this blond guy worries you and you're concerned with how serious this could actually get. Hopefully with Ace here – although you hate the thought of someone looking after you – things won't get too serious.

After you agree to sit in a game with Wayne and Ace and a couple other guys you realize that you don't know what they play for. You don't have money, you only have one cigarette – though you would give your lungs to smoke it – and you're in for at least a year so you can't guarantee anybody anything when you get out either.

You lean over to Ace. "What do we play for?" you ask in a low voice.

"Labor, cigarettes. Something stronger if everyone agrees. If ya lose, ya gotta pay somehow. Play smart, Shepard."

You manage to play it safe for a couple rounds. Even though you could have won two of the hands, you remain calm and fold early, hoping to avoid the action and learn the rules. You expect the blond-haired guy to pressure you to play, but he just waits smirking at you every now and then. If anything that makes you even more worried. The guy who is willing to wait is the most dangerous. You feel a nudge at your feet and look up at Wayne.

"Ya gotta play sometime." He winks.

You take a deep breath, and then look at the two cards that you were dealt.

You gulp. Two Queens. It's a great start, you admit, but you're worried about playing with the big guys. You nervously roll your cigarette between your fingers and your thumb. This could be your lifesaver.

"Your bet, Shepard," Ace says, grinning with his hands carefully covering his cards.

You nod. "Check."

Ace grins, then knocks on the table. It makes it all the way around before Wayne deals the first three cards.

One Queen, one Jack and a five of hearts. You thank whoever is listening for at least a three-of-a-kind and you struggle to keep a poker face.

You decide to stay in, if anything to show your worth. So far, only cigarettes and the occasional joint have been tossed in. You want to bet, but you're not exactly sure how to bet something that you don't have much of anyway.

"You still in?" The blond asks. You nod. He looks over at the other guys. "Y'all?"

Two of the guys remain in, grinning hungrily at you. You tense up, wondering if it was such a good idea to join after all.

Ace grins. "Next, Lex Luth-."

"Shut the fuck up," Wayne growls as he lays down the next card. It's a King of spades.

"Nice cards," someone in the crowd watching says and you silently agree. You feel your heart thumping. All sorts of good hands can come from what is on the table. And you have is a three of a kind.

"Okay, who is still in now?" Ace asks. The mysterious guy coughs loudly, attracting attention. Damn, now he's going to make his move, just when you have a decent hand.

Suddenly the rest of the guys fold their hands – including Ace and Wayne – leaving you alone.

Now you're not so sure if Ace is such a cool roommate after all.

"Let's make a deal, Shepard." The blond grins, getting a cigarette from the pack beside him. "If I win, you do what I say until you or I get out of this joint."

Your mouth becomes dry. "What?" That's one hell of a bet. You don't even know who this guy is. You put on a brave face. "And if I win?"

He lights the smoke coolly and blows out a cloud of gray. "Respect."

You decide not to play around. It would be better to know what you are getting into than not, after all.

"Respect for who?" He smiles.

"I will give you my respect. You will be known as 'Shepard' and no one else will come to mind."

Now you understand. He's giving you a chance to be known as your own person - not as Tim's little brother.

"What's it to you?" you ask. "What does Tim have to do with you? He ain't served here."

He shrugs his shoulders and takes another drag. "Your call."

If it had been any other time you probably would have refused the deal. Being someone's slave for a year wouldn't have been worth any type of respect. But now you don't even have Tim's and you're ready to stake everything.

You don't want to be known as Tim's little brother … to anyone.

"Fine."

He gives a wild grin then nods to Wayne, who lays the final card.

You could almost scream.

It's a Jack of clubs. You have a full house, one of the best hands possible. Full of confidence, you take your last cigarette and look around for something to light it with. The mysterious guy's bright red lighter is just lying on the table. For a brief moment you feel enough courage to reach over and grab it. Holding it to the cigarette in your mouth, you light up – keeping your eyes trained on the blond as he watches you from across the table.

"All right, what do you got?"

He smirks and flips over his cards He holds a Jack and a Queen. "Full house. Jacks over Queens."

You coolly keep your poker face, feeling older than you ever have before. Flipping over your own queens you take in the triumph as the guy's face goes from boastful to shock.

"Full house. Queens over Jacks."

The guys watching are impressed and a few start clapping. Ace gives you a grin while Wayne nudges your foot. The guy stubs out his cigarette on the table and stands up. He holds out his hand.

"Al Parker." Then you see it. He's Tony's brother.

For a second you think about Tony, Andy, Sam, Billy and Tim and what they would think. But then you remember that it's just you now and you reach to shake his hand.

"Curly Shepard." You don't give a flying fuck if it sounds lame. It was the name that you grew up with and it's who you will always be. You, and only you, are Curly Shepard.

"Your brother put me in here, you know."

"Well." You stub out your own smoke on the table. "That's something we have in common."

* * *

One week after you met Al Parker – and gained his respect – you were given your second phone call. You had to look up the number in the phone book, all while damning him for having a common last name. Eventually you found Darrel Curtis, dialed the numbers, and waited for someone to pick up.

"Hello?"

"Um." You can't tell who it is. "Ponyboy?"

"Nope, it's Soda. You want to talk to Ponyboy?"

Well, duh. "Yeah. It's Curly."

"Curly? Curly Shepard?"

"How many other Curlys' do you know?" You ask. While momentarily frustrating, it's also funny and a grin grows on your face.

"Man, I thought you were in the pen?"

"Actually, I am. But I gotta talk to Pony 'bout something and I'm on limited time. Is he there?"

"Yeah, one sec." You can hear Soda turn away from the phone and yell 'Ponyboy!' through the house.

A few seconds later Ponyboy's voice come through the phone. "Curly?" You can hear the surprise.

"Yeah. Listen, Curtis, I got a favor to ask of you."

"Look, Curly. Darry's … he's not too happy about you going up state."

You don't understand what Darry has to do with this. "What do you mean?"

"I know it's stupid, but he's lookin' out for me, ya know?" You nod; after all, you wish Tim had looked out for you. "Anyway, he's not really convinced that …"

Now you know where this is going. You cut him off. "Listen, Ponyboy." You turn around so that the guard can only see your back. "I didn't do nothing."

"Didn't they catch you with a gun and money?" He doesn't believe you, but you can't blame him. All you can do is hope that you can convince him that this whole thing wasn't your fault. And there is only one way to do that. You take a deep breath.

"I took the fall for Tim."

"What?" Now he's shocked.

"It was all Tim's idea, his plan, his gun." You pause for a few seconds before continuing. "It was his order to not say anything and let them take me in."

For the first time, you've said it out loud. This was not your fault. The only fault that you are responsible for is listening to Tim and not saying anything when you had the chance. Now you're stuck in here for fifteen months with people who have done a lot worst than Tim has ever considered.

"What?" He's still shocked, like he can't believe that you would take the blame for Tim.

"Tim told me to stay still and not say anything. I got hauled in, and I still didn't say nothing. So I got slapped with a fifteen month sentence in Oklahoma City." It's like you've been let out early. You can breathe freely again, knowing that you aren't the only one who knows that you didn't do anything wrong.

"Have you talked to Tim yet?"

"Yeah, I called my house last week."

"What did he say?"

You close your eyes and lean against the wall. No matter how mad you are at Tim for letting you take the fault, it was him not caring whether or not you were stuck in here that really hurt.

"He said if I do good behavior maybe I'll get out early."

The other end is silent for a moment. You wait for Ponyboy to speak.

"I'm sorry, Curly."

You give a small chuckle, wondering when in hell you suddenly became Tim's scapegoat. "Shit happens, Curtis. But I've learned my lesson. Which brings me back to my original favor."

"Anything, Curly. What do you need?" Words cannot describe how you feel so thankful for an understanding friend like Ponyboy.

"I need you to get me that book."

"Curly, it's a library book."

You don't understand what he means. "So?"

"You have to return it."

"Shut up, Curtis. I'm an inmate at the Oklahoma State Penitentiary; I don't return library books," you joke, hoping that he will bring you the book anyway.

Ponyboy chuckles. "Sure. It's at your house though, right?"

"Yeah. It should be on the floor next to my bed. If you go right after school usually no one is home."

"Got it. I'll try to get it in the mail sometime this week."

"Thanks a lot, Curtis. I owe you big time."

"No you don't, Curly." He pauses like he has something else to say, so you wait. "Good luck."

You laugh. "Shoot, Curtis. If I had luck, I wouldn't be here in the first place." You hang up the phone, feeling much better than when you had picked it up.


	17. Prison Education

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders**

**A/N: Hey! I'm updating early for DrowningFromtheInside, who has been such a faithful reviewer. Deds to somebluedecember for all of her beta work. Please review! They would be great to receive/read while I work on three papers that I totally ignored over Spring Break. :P Oh, and by the way, Hirotake is not a real person. I made him up, but based his character and actions off of real samurai who I have studied. If you're interested, send me a PM, but it's not necessary to know a lot about samurai for this story.  
**

* * *

Between Tim's state when he got home that one night, and Tony's antics in juvie, you would be the first one to expect Al Parker to be rude, nasty and just an all-around asshole.

In fact, he wasn't like his brother at all. Ironically, he reminded you a lot of Dallas - he was mean, but justifiable about it; he was like every other hood you'd met on the streets. He was willing to help you out unless you crossed him somehow. At first you were a little skeptical because of your personal experiences with Tony, but - in the end - you realized that by meeting Al, you had only proved the fact that brothers weren't necessarily identical in personalities.

One week after you had talked to Ponyboy – and two weeks after the infamous poker game - Al shows up at your door.

"Hey, Shepard," he says with a grin on his face.

"Hey, Al. What can I do for ya?"

"You got a package. The warden has it in his office."

A feeling surges through your chest because you know what the package is. Mumbling a small thanks to Al, you walk past him toward the warden's office at the end of the hall.

No one really pays attention to you. It's fine, of course, since you don't really want to attract any attention anyway. When you arrive at the office, the warden opens the door before you can knock.

"Shepard," he says with a smirk. "You've got a present. It your birthday or something?"

You sort of hunch over and try to act as humble as possible. "I heard that I had a package, sir."

The warden stares at you for a few seconds, but it feels like forever. "All right, Shepard," he finally says. "I'll give ya your package." He walks inside, but you stay next to the door. The warden's office is a place where he has total control. If you could have it your way, you would never walk in there.

Unfortunately, the warden beckons you with his fingers and you are forced to walk inside. "I want you to know, Shepard. I'm not obligated to give you your presents from the outside world. I don't have to give you your package, you know?"

You stand there, unsure what to do. You wish that he would just give you your package so that you can open it and finish the book. The inside of a state penitentiary is boring – the only thing that you have really done is lift weights. But even then, you wish that there were something else to occupy your time.

The warden stares at you for a moment, and even though you're scared to shit of him, you keep eye contact. You refuse to look down - not out of defiance, but out of self-dignity. Finally he hands over a small package – just big enough to fit a library book – and you take it. For some reason it almost feels like a great weight has been removed from your shoulders. You look up at the warden.

"Thank you, sir." Your words are sincere. Regardless of prisoner rights, the warden controls whatever he can, mail included. The man who stands before you - who has eyes colder than Dallas Winston's – didn't have to give you your package.

The warden smirks, because he believes that he has control over you. In reality, though, you have realized that by acting to his rules but maintaining your own identity, you have control over him.

**OOOOO**

Within a week you finish the book.

It takes long hours of reading and breaking curfew, but you manage to get through the whole thing with only the help of a dictionary. At some points you were almost ready to give up, but with patience and a great deal of determination you managed to pull through. Some of the words didn't make sense, but the story did.

You start from the beginning again with Hirotake, the not-real warrior from the real war that was fought four hundred years ago. He was kicked out of the house and had to fend for himself. As the pages turn, the reading gets easier and more interesting.

Hirotake's journey is long and hard, but he struggled and pursued for his honor. One of the parts that you find most interesting is when he meets his brother in a battle. It was fought on a normal day – Hirotake didn't even expect to fight. Yet, when he did, he found himself fighting against his very own blood brother – the man who had taught him everything about the way of the sword.

The ending was even more surprising, and you finish the book with an uneasy feeling. It's hard to think about how the book ended, but after all, 'it's just fiction, right?'.

But even when you go to bed a week after reading the last page, you keep thinking about the ending of the book. But no matter how many times you tell yourself that it's just a story written by a person from a long time ago you can't shake the feeling.

Because at the end of the clash between the two brothers, Hirotake was not the victor. The tragic ending gets to you deeper than you had ever felt before.

**OOOOO**

Every other week you call Angela to let her know how you're doing. You receive letters at least once a week, usually twice. They're about two pages long each – obviously written during her classes – detailing life outside of the prison walls.

She talks about having a boyfriend, though she doesn't mention his name. She also talks about how school is getting harder, how your mom works longer hours and how your stepdad is being a dick. Again.

It lets you to believe that you are still part of the gang. That you haven't been sent away for over a year. That you can still go home and sleep in your own bed.

On the opposite weeks you call Ponyboy. He gives you titles to read next from the prison library. If you can't get it from there, then he sends it to you and you thank whoever is listening every day for a friend like him.

You manage to finish a book every two weeks. Every time that you finish a story you think about it at night while Ace sleeps, snoring loudly beneath you. Time passes quickly, between working out, playing poker with Al and Ace and reading.

At first you thought Al, Ace or even Wayne would have made fun of you for reading so much. But instead, they supported you. You remember the first time when Al caught you reading. You had read about eight books by then, and this one was about Billy the Kid.

"Billy the Kid? Shit, man, he's the original hood. My ma told me about it when I was young, but I forget most of the story."

When you had finished the book less than two days later you had awkwardly knocked on his door, wondering if he was going to smack you upside the head for offering to tell him the story about Billy the Kid.

Instead, he welcomed it. He really was different than Tony, who would do anything to terrorize the other people in the reformatory. Al listened, asked questions, and then told the rest of his buddies the story about a real guy who lived during the nineteenth century.

After a few days, the story of Billy the Kid spread through the rest of the prison. Four books later, you became known as the "book kid". You never thought that you would be known as a kid associated with books, but it just happened. Of course, you worked hard to maintain your tough hood image too. Every day you worked out with Ace – who still had biceps larger than your face – in the weight room. You gave your respect to the warden, and treated the other prisoners fairly.

Time passed quickly, and the seasons changed. In November, Ace got in a fight with one of the new inmates who thought he was better than everyone else. For Christmas, Angela came up to see you, and brought a cake that she had baked during her Home Ec class. While the guys agreed that Angela had baked a pretty fine cake, they kept making jokes about how she forgot to add the most important ingredient: the file.

In February, the warden allowed the screening of the movie, _West Side Story_. Even though it was technically a musical, you still enjoyed it. In late March, winter ended and you were finally let out from the stone walls of the prison. You were only allowed into the courtyard – and had to remain fifty feet from the fence – but it was almost like being free again.

Then, one day in late May – a year after you had been sentenced - the warden called you to his office.

"Shepard." The warden paces behind his desk as you sit in the uncomfortable wooden chair.

"Yes?" you ask. You've managed to gain familiarity with the warden and you don't have to address him as "sir" anymore. According to you, it's one more way of displaying your control.

The warden goes to his desk and pulls out a file – your file – and sifts through it. "You've behaved real well here this past year. You don't get in fights, you've gotten along well with your roommate and the rest of the cell block regards you as an honest man."

It's silly, but the warden calling you a man sends thrills throughout your body. You've only been a boy before – but now you're a real man, a person with authority and experience.

"I've got some news for ya," The warden says, looking up from your file.

"Yeah?"

"You're going home. Three months early. Get ready to pack your bags, Mr. Shepard, because next week you'll be sleeping in your own bed."

The news hits you like a freight train. You expected to fulfill your fifteen months at the big house – three months to go. This news is sudden, unexpected and in some regards, scary. How will the rest of the neighborhood - the neighborhood that you haven't seen in a year – react when you return home from Oklahoma City?

Will they welcome you with open arms as the younger brother of Tim Shepard? Or will they treat you like scum, knowing that you have served a sentence at state? Or is it possible that they will accept and recognize the different person who will return to Tulsa? If anything, you're certain that you're different now than when you came here.

"You hear me, Shepard? Pack your bags. Call someone and make sure that they can pick you up next Tuesday."

You nod. You're going home. You're uncertain at the moment – after all, you've spent the last year in Oklahoma City – but you know that everything will work itself out.

Hopefully.

**OOOOO**

"Well, Shepard. We're going to miss ya, but we understand that we have to let you go sometime." Ace grins. It's your last day in the prison. You called Angela the night before asking if she could find someone to pick you up the next morning. She said that she would handle it, but you secretly hope that it isn't Tim.

You haven't talked to Tim since that conversation just after you got into the prison a year ago. Ever since then, you've worked – academically and physically – to prove that you don't need him in your life to guide you. That you can lead yourself down the path that you want to travel. You don't intend to be Hirotake, the samurai who was eventually defeated by his brother after he had defected from his family. You want to prove to Tim that you don't need his help, you don't need his gang, and you certainly don't need him to get somewhere in life.

"Thanks," you mutter as you pick at your breakfast. It's weird, but if you had to decide between staying in prison or going back home, you aren't sure what you would choose. In prison you are limited as to what you can do, but you are surrounded by guys who would be willing to back you up. At home, you would be free to do whatever you want, but you would be all by yourself – even worse than solitary.

You grin to yourself, thinking about how in the beginning you felt just as alone because Tim wasn't there. Now you think about how you would feel if you had never come to that revelation and still relied on Tim like a young lackey.

"Hey, kid," Ace says, and snaps his fingers so you look up. "We got ya something before you left."

You shrink back into your chair. You haven't celebrated any type of gift-giving holiday since you were a kid. You had learned from an early age that nothing comes free in life. You aren't sure if you are comfortable accepting gifts from inmates who you have lived with for the past year.

"It's all right," you mumble, trying to avoid the gift-giving.

"Nah, Shepard. You deserved it. Besides, it's nothing big." Al digs into his pocket and pulls out his favorite lighter. It's the bright red one that you used during your first poker game together. You hold it in your hands and think about its importance. You flick open the top and let the flame bloom upon the shiny silver. After staring at it for a few seconds, you evaporate the flame and tuck the lighter into your pocket.

"Thanks, Al," you say. There isn't much that you can say when someone else gives you his favorite lighter.

"No problem, Shepard. Just remember, that's a special lighter."

"Special, my ass. It's a fucking lighter." Ace laughs. You have to grin – there is something about his laugh that refuses to let you keep a straight face. When he stops laughing, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. "Here ya go, Shepard. This is my way of saying thanks for being a good roommate this year."

"A pack of cigarettes? And you said my shit wasn't special."

"Well, it isn't. I never said that my stuff wasn't special either."

Al and Ace start to argue over trivial stuff - like whose gift was better - but you just sit and stare at the pack of cigarettes and the bright red lighter, and you wonder why the criminals in the big house treat you better than your own brother.


	18. Changed Reality

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders**

**A/N: So, I'm basically having the best day ever. Deds to somebluedecember and to all my wonderful reviewers. This is for all the people who asked about Tim, haha. Have a great day, and please review!  
**

* * *

The sun bounces off of the black 1962 Ford Thunderbird. The light shines brightly and you bring up your arms to shade your eyes. There is a figure walking towards you but it looks like a solar eclipse, and the sun shines out behind him like he's God on Earth.

A year ago you would have believed that image. A year ago you would have smiled when your brother picked you up. A year ago you would have done anything to make him proud.

He stops about halfway between you and the car, waiting for you to walk over. But you won't give him that satisfaction. Your hands are stuffed in your pockets and your shoulders are hunched over in a slouch that says that you don't care. You stare straight ahead, waiting for him to walk over to you.

It's almost like one of those Mexican standoffs. You remember reading about how cowboys would stand on opposite sides of the street, hands resting on their pistols that sit heavily in their holsters. You feel the same way, like both of you are waiting for the other to make the first move.

It doesn't take long for Tim to start walking the rest of the way. Of course, you realize, he probably doesn't understand the significance. If it were with anyone else, he would have waited. But it's just you and he probably thinks that he can order you around like any other lackey, like any other teenager, like any other person in this world.

Like you, before you realized that you were just a pawn in his game.

He's standing before you now, look straight at you. You had your growth spurt and can see just over his head. For some reason you feel empowered that you are taller than Tim – even if it's barely half an inch - but at the same time you recognize that you are still not at strong. Prison food can hinder you like that.

"Curly." Tim holds out his hand. "Good to have you back. I see that you've grown a bit."

You don't shake his hand. He has this smirk on his face that makes you want to hit something. It's like he knows that you've had one hell of a year, but it could have been worse. It's like this is all a joke to him, something to laugh about when he's had a few too many beers. It's like he's an emperor and you're a warrior, and you've just returned from valiantly defending your country – even though you never wanted to fight to begin with.

"Taller than you now, huh?"

The skin around his eyes tightens as he stares at you hard. It's almost like he's trying to decide whether to take it as an insult or a common observation.

He apparently chooses the latter and pats you on the shoulder. "C'mon, kid. Let's go home." He turns around and starts walking back to the car. You stare at his back for a few seconds, letting the unintentional nickname sit in your head. Ace can call you kid. Al can call you kid. Tim? Tim's just a kid himself.

The ride is uncomfortable. The radio is broken so silence fills the musky air. Your knees are hitting the dashboard and the headrest feels weird because you're taller compared to the last time you sat in a car.

Tim takes a deep sigh next to you – the first real movement he has made since you both got in the car – and you see him glance over at you from the corner of your eye.

"So, how was the big house?"

You almost want to pull a fast one and say, "Well, you wouldn't know, would ya?" But instead you keep your mouth shut. You're willing to bide your time until you get back home. You may just have served a year in state for him, but you would still bet that he would leave you on the side of the road in a heartbeat. Instead you settle for a non-confronting truth.

"I learned a lot."

He's silent for a moment before he responds. You wish you could get into that complicated, scheming head of his.

"I can tell."

Really? You contemplate that sentence, wondering if he's trying to piss you off or something. "What do you mean by that?"

"You've really grown up." He looks outside the side window at the house that you haven't seen in a year. He parks the car and shuts off the engine but he doesn't move from his seat. He turns to look at you but you keep staring straight ahead. You won't give him anything. He is only in this for himself.

"I want you to be my second, Curly."

_What?_

You instantly search your brain, trying to remember if Angela mentioned anything about Sam in her letters. Sam and Tim have been best friends for years. Tim would never just drop him like that, would he?

Then again, you didn't think it was possible for him to drop you either.

Puzzled, you turn to look at him – the first time you've made eye contact since he walked up to you outside of the prison. "What's wrong with Sam?"

"What do you mean? Nothings wrong." It still doesn't make sense.

"Then what's going to happen to him after I become second?" Shit. You didn't mean to imply that you're accepting the position. You hope he doesn't notice, but he does. He smirks and moves his hand to prop open the door.

"He's fine with it. You know Sam – if the world stopped turning he wouldn't give a flying fuck. He became my second because no one else was good enough for the job. But now, you've shown that you're loyal, Curly. I can trust you."

You sigh heavily.

Half of you want to tell him to that he can go fuck himself. The fact that he has already talked to Sam about it implies that he is positive that you'll take the job. He sounds so fucking sure that you just want to march out of the car and leave _him_ in the dust for once.

But it's second in command. It's a job that you've always wanted. It's a job that you've always aspired to. It's a job that has never been within your grasp before.

And he said that he trusts you. You've never had that before either. Maybe he has changed. Maybe he doesn't see you as a little kid that can be ordered around any more.

And besides, just because you're Tim's second, it doesn't mean that you have to be his puppet or his clone, right?

"Well, Curly? You gonna be my second-in-command or what?"

This is your chance. Probably the only one that you've got. It's a job wanted by every hood on this side of the river. He trusts you now. You can still be Curly.

You can practically see the gears turning in your head, trying to convince you to take it.

You stare out the window at the bright sunlight. You wonder if any of those guys that you read about in those books were ever willing to lose something just to prove who they were. If they desired to be something bigger - to mean something greater than just some random hood in the Shepard Gang.

You close your eyes and lean your head against the cool glass of the window. "Fine," you mutter. There isn't any eagerness or energy in your voice. You feel more tired than ever before, like you're carrying a load of bricks on your back.

"I knew you wouldn't say no." You feel Tim's hand rest on your shoulder like he's trying to console you or something. But you don't even want to think about him and the second you feel his hand you open up the door and get out of the car.

You shut the door with a little more force than necessary and walk up the sidewalk and into the house. The second you open the door you find yourself in one of Angela's tight hugs.

"Curly!" She stands back and takes a good look at you. "You're so tall! You really grew."

You grin. "Growth spurt." She's grown a little bit too. She's a little bit taller, and she looks older. But too old. Like she's aged five years – married, working and cleaning house all day.

Heavy footsteps from behind you tell you that Tim is coming up the walk. You don't want to talk to him at this moment so you walk past Angela towards your room. The door is closed and you can't help feeling omniscient, like something is different and the door is there on purpose to keep you from knowing. Gently you push the door open.

You frown.

The room is the cleanest you've ever seen. There aren't any clothes on the floor. The two pillows on the bed are positioned on top of each other so that it looks like only one person sleeps there. A small box of your stuff is sitting near the dresser, and a layer of dust on top of it tells you that it hasn't been moved in a while.

"Hope you didn't mind that I put your stuff out of the way. I knew you were gonna be gone for a while," Tim says, coming up behind you.

"Nah, it's fine," you respond automatically. You can just feel the puzzled look sitting on your face as you try to decide what to do next. Deciding to start with the box first, you squat down and starting sifting through, picking up old pairs of jeans that wouldn't fit anymore and t-shirts with stains that never got washed.

"We'll get ya some new clothes." Tim walks over and grabs a pack of cigarettes from the bedside table. He tosses you the pack and gives a grin. "Those are for you."

"Thanks." You turn the smokes over before opening them up and pulling one out. You grab the lighter that Al gave you and calmly light the cigarette. You smoked most of the pack from Ace on your ride back with Tim. But you're already feeling fidgety with all this change and you hope a cigarette will calm you down.

Silence sits in the air as you smoke and Tim stands there, watching you with his arms crossed. You don't make eye contact. Instead you just stare at the floor, wondering what to do next.

"You hungry? Let's go get something to eat."

At first it sounds like a good idea. You didn't eat breakfast or lunch so you're starving, but for some reason you don't want to be near Tim. You glance at the clock. It's three in the afternoon so you'll probably be able to stall for at least a couple hours. You stand up, finishing your cigarette and grinding it out in the ashtray on top of the dresser.

"Maybe later," you say calmly. You walk past Tim over to the bed and grab one of the neatly stacked pillows. With a pillow in one hand and your box of cigarettes in the other, you walk out of the room towards the living room where you can hear Angela gossiping on the telephone in the kitchen. You throw the pillow next to one of the armrests and lie down, grabbing the blanket on top of the couch. Pulling it over you, you gently close your eyes and let deep sleep take you.


	19. Bloody Sunsets

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders**

**A/N: Nothing fancy to say. Deds to somebluedecember as always and please review!  
**

**

* * *

May 1968**

You wake up to the noise of the television set. The Looney Tunes are back to their antics again, and whoever is sitting on the other end of the couch is laughing in response. It's slightly annoying, but more curious since he's definitely a guy and Tim doesn't laugh at Looney Tunes.

Gazing over the top of the blanket you realize that it's Jimmy, one of your closest friends. You grin slightly, betting that he is probably somebody who didn't change.

"Hey, Jimmy," you greet him. Jimmy looks around at you like he just realized that you had woken up.

"Curly! What's happening, man?" He sets down the beer bottle on the coffee table and reaches to shake your hand in a tough grip. "How was the big house?"

You shrug your shoulders because you don't really want to talk about your year in Oklahoma City. Instead, you try to give a humorous response. "Maybe you'll find out someday."

He laughs. "Maybe." He gestures to his beer. "You want one?"

You shake your head. You're too lazy to really do anything at the moment. All you really want to do is relax. It's been a long time since you were home.

"Okay, man. Suit yourself." He turns back to the TV, laughing again at the cartoon.

The two of you sit there in silence for about five minutes before Angela walks in, her purse hanging off of her shoulder. "Jimmy, I'm ready."

Jimmy sighs and stands up, finishing the beer in one last gulp. He sets the bottle on the tabletop and grabs his coat from the floor. "Later, Curly." He moves towards the front door.

"Where you going?" you ask, at the same time Angela says, "Curly, you're awake!"

Jimmy turns around to face you, a puzzled look on his face. You wonder what he is going to tell you. You've got this feeling in your gut that it's not going to be good.

"I'm taking Angel to work."

_Angel?_

"Since when do you call her Angel? Since when do you take her to work?" You turn around to face Angela, who is now staring intently at the floor. "Since when do you even work, Angela?"

"A few months ago. I didn't think it was really important so I didn't tell you in your letters," she says softly, still looking at the floor. An ache is starting to grow in your chest and you wonder what else she didn't tell you.

"Okay. But why is Jimmy taking you?" You have to ask. You have to know. She doesn't say anything and the ache grows bigger. Instead, Jimmy speaks.

"Because she's my wife."

_What?_

You throw off the blanket and stand up, even though you don't know what you are going to do. Jimmy is standing on your left looking frustrated and puzzled while Angela is standing on your right, staring at the floor, tears sitting in her eyes.

"What? Angela … the fuck?"

She hitches a small sob, and you feel bad. But you don't know why she is married, why to Jimmy, and why she didn't tell you anything about this.

What else did she not tell you?

"Did you not tell him, Angela?" Jimmy asks. You look over at him and stare at him hard. You wonder when he became Angela's husband and why. Meanwhile, Jimmy is staring at Angela who is still staring at the floor.

"I'm sorry, Curly," she says quietly. "I thought … I mean, I'm not, but …"

A cold hand clenches your heart and you struggle to remember how to breathe. "Son of a bitch," you mutter before walking eerily calmly over to Jimmy. He stands still like he knows that he deserves it.

It only takes a punch to bring him down to the ground. Angela gasps in the background, but you ignore her as she tries to tell you to stop.

"Curly, please stop!"

Jimmy starts to rise; he's on his hands and knees. His nose is broken, blood is running down his face and his eyes are slightly unfocused. All from one punch.

You grab his t-shirt and pull him up before delivering another on the side of the head. He lets out a strangled cry before falling back down. This time he doesn't get up. Lying on the ground, his hands covering his face you can hear him trying not to whimper. It sort of amazes you – the power that you have. Jimmy is a good fighter, and not weak by any means. But you've managed to take him down and injure him to where he's so close to tears.

You walk up right next to him so that your feet are inches from his face. You look down the length of your body at him and he seems so small and insignificant.

The sound of a person clearing his throat causes you to look to your left. Tim's standing in the doorway that leads to the kitchen, his arms crossed across his chest. He keeps looking from you to Jimmy and back to you. His face is blank and you don't know what to make of it.

Finally he reaches back into his pants pocket and pulls out his own car keys. "C'mon, Angel. I'll take ya to work."

She sniffles and rushes past you out the door. Tim follows, leaving you and Jimmy alone in the living room. Closing your eyes, you slowly breathe in and out.

Everything has changed.

**OOOOO**

Tim's making you second-in-command. Angela is married. Your best friend is now your brother-in-law.

You had solace whenever you opened one of Angela's letters. You were eager to know what was going on so that you wouldn't be left out when you returned home. But now that you have returned home, it looks like it was all a lie.

Nothing is the same.

You don't even have to really think where you're going, and before you know it you're standing in front of his house.

After Tim and Angela left, the house seemed too small. The pressure had squeezed you tightly, and the frustration at not knowing anything had peaked. So you grabbed your jacket and your smokes and headed out the door, leaving Jimmy on the ground. You weren't heading to any place in particular. All that mattered was that you were out of the house.

And now you're here.

It's a small house, but the lights are on and the radio is playing. There are a few abandoned cars in the front yard – some are missing engines and others are missing tires. A worn-out couch is the only piece of furniture on the small porch, but the shade from the tall oak tree in the front yard makes it one of the most peaceful places in the whole neighborhood.

You walk up the steps and peer through the screen door before opening it and letting yourself in. Because of its wear, the door screeches, alerting everyone to your presence. Ponyboy grin and gives you a wave.

"Hey, Curly!"

It's been a really shitty day but you can't stop your own grin from growing on your face. "Hey Ponyboy. Can I come in?" you ask, looking warily at his oldest brother who is watching you from the kitchen. Ponyboy looks over at Darry, who nods in response.

Oddly, you feel more welcome in this house than your own. You grab a seat next to Ponyboy on the couch.

"You staying for dinner?" he asks.

You shrug. You're not sure if his older brothers know about what went down last year or not, but you're going to assume that they'll be okay with you staying over for dinner. Plus, then you have an excuse not to go home and deal with Tim any more than you have to.

"Sure. What'cha cookin'?"

He laughs. "Not me, Soda. And I have no idea what he's cookin'. Hopefully something edible."

"I heard that, Ponyboy!"

The two of you laugh. It feels good to relax after a stressful afternoon, a stressful day, a stressful year.

It's the best dinner you've ever eaten – even before you went away for a year. Soda keeps a conversation going while Darry and Ponyboy talk about school. You try to listen in to find out what Ponyboy's learning, but Soda keeps asking you questions about the big house.

"Was it big?"

You smirk. "Bigger than the reformatory." You hear the worlds "English class" from Ponyboy and try to keep up with both conversations at once.

"What did ya do? It must have been pretty boring."

"I read a lot," you answer calmly, like it's completely normal. Ponyboy stops talking with Darry and both of them look over at you. Soda looks at you in disbelief.

"For real?"

"Yeah, for real." You nod your head towards Ponyboy. "Pony helped me pick out some books too. What, you think I can read or something?" You try to make your question sound like a joke, but you can't help the confrontational tone coming out.

Soda smiles. "Of course you can, even I can read. But … do they have a library in the pen or something?"

You let out a breath you didn't know that you were holding. "Yeah. Doesn't get used much though."

"I bet." Soda laughs. You relax; it's hard to stay mad at the middle Curtis brother.

The rest of dinner goes on with ease. Afterwards you help Pony with the dishes while Soda tries to rub the knots out of Darry's back. In a weird sort of way, you envy Ponyboy. Even though you can't imagine being anyone but yourself – neither do you want to be – you wish you lived in a household where everyone ate dinner together and helped each other out. By doing something as stupid and corny as helping Ponyboy with the dishes, you sort of pretend that you are part of the family, too.

When the last one is dried and put away, Ponyboy grabs his smokes form the counter and motions to the door. "Wanna smoke?"

You nod, grabbing your own cigarettes from the pocket of your small leather jacket and the two of you head outside and sit on the couch. Ponyboy grabs the corner seat so that he can lay his head on the arm and you perch yourself on the opposite end of the couch.

"What's –" you start to say, but Ponyboy shushes you.

He points to the landscape beyond the porch. "Watch."

You watch, and are stunned at the sight. The sun is setting, and a mixture of colors – reds, oranges and purples – are raised in the sky. A few extra-bright stars peak out in the darker areas, but the focus is on the sun as it slowly disappears beneath the horizon. It's poetic without words, or a song without music.

It's amazing how you lived for seventeen years on this Earth, and have never really watched the sun go down.

When the last bit of the sun disappears, Ponyboy turns to look at you. "Well?"

For a brief moment you refuse to say a certain sappy thought that jumped its way into your head. But after remembering whose company you're in, you say it anyway.

"It's beautiful," you reply, not caring how much you sound like a fag. You know that Ponyboy is different – he'll understand what you mean.

Ponyboy is silent for a moment before he speaks. "It's the first sunset I've seen in a long time."

"When was that last time?"

"In the church. With Johnny." An uneasy silence casts over and for a while you just go through your cigarettes watching the sky turn darker and darker until the only light comes from the moon, the stars, and the flickering street lamp on the corner of the street. After you've smoked half of the carton that Tim gave you, you hesitantly bring up the subject.

"It was about two years ago, right?" you ask.

"Yeah," Ponyboy says after a few seconds. "Feels like just yesterday, though."

"I know the feeling," you reply. And you do. It feels like just yesterday that Tim abandoned you at the drag race and left you to rot for a year in prison.

There's silence again, and you ground out another cigarette into the overflowing ashtray. You're about to get up and go home – you don't want to tread on the Curtis' hospitality too much – when Ponyboy softly asks you a question.

"You ever feel like you're just getting older? Like each day just gets more and more complicated?"

His question hits you. You don't know how to respond because you've never thought about it before. Sure, you're always getting older – even though you don't really celebrate your birthday every year - but you feel like Ponyboy is asking a deeper question than that. The second question is easier to answer though.

"Of course each day gets more complicated. You've got one more day behind you, one more day to remember." He doesn't look at you. Instead, he lights up another smoke and continues to stare out into the street. "Why?"

You watch him think, like he's trying to decide whether or not to tell you what's going on in his brain. After a minute of uneasy silence, you stand up; you don't want him to feel like he has to say anything.

Just as you are about to walk off the porch step he talks. "Johnny told me to stay gold. It's like being a kid – everything's new and exciting."

You stand still for a moment. What's new and exciting in your life? Getting out of jail? Somehow, you don't think that's what Ponyboy is getting at.

Then you really started thinking. Nothing is new. You had gone to jail and came back, but you're still Tim's little brother. You're still part of his gang. You're still under his control.

"Maybe Robert Frost was right. Nothing gold can stay."

You turn around. He's holding his head with his hands, the ashes from the cigarette falling to the floor. You're about to agree with him when you think of all the books that you read and the things that you learned. You grin slightly.

"Maybe he's half right."

Ponyboy looks up. "What?"

You shrug. "Maybe he's half right," you repeat. "Everyone has to grow up a little bit, it's a part of life. But as long as you remain a little gold –" You hold up your hand with your index and thumb almost touching, "- then you'll be happy."

He grins. "When did you become Socrates?"

"Who's Socrates?"

"Did you read the book on Greek philosophy? Socrates was Plato's teacher."

"You mean Soh-crates?"

Ponyboy laughs. He gets up and makes his way to the door. When he's almost inside he turns around. "You're still a greaser, Curly. Stay that way."

You laugh. "I wouldn't choose any different."


	20. Rebellious Ignorance

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders.**

**A/N: Thanks to somebluedecember for beta-reading, and Believe in Something Bigger for being a devoted reviewer! Please review!

* * *

**

**May 1968**

You wake up to the smell of breakfast in the kitchen. You wince as you slowly get up. The damn couch was smaller than you thought so you had curled up all night in order to fit. Now your knees are aching, your neck is in pain and your left arm is numb. For a second you wish that you didn't have any pride so that you could go back to sharing the bed with Tim.

When you returned home the night before the house was nearly silent except for the TV playing. You had walked into the house to find Tim sitting on the couch watching the late news.

"_Anything interesting?" you ask. Tim seemed to be just sitting there, not actually paying attention._

"_Nah. I stayed up because I wanted to talk to you." He stands up and walks over to where you haven't moved form the doorway. "What was going on earlier today?"_

_You furrow your eyebrows in frustration. Wasn't it obvious? "Angela got married and nobody bothered to tell me? He fucking deserved it, Tim, and no one can tell me different."_

"_I know he deserved it, but ya didn't have to beat him unconscious." He looks at you quizzically. "Did something happen at state?"_

_Hell yeah stuff happened. You realized that your brother didn't really care about you. You realized that you needed to stand up for yourself. You realized that you had power deep within yourself that just needed to be unlocked._

"_Remember when you used to tell me that I needed to grow up?" you ask him. 'Well, I did." You walk into the kitchen, not because you're hungry but because you want to end this conversation. _

_Tim walks in behind you. You expect him to start laying into you again – like he's always done – but instead he says something else. _

"_I put your pillow back on the bed. Are you gonna stay up, or what?"_

_Leaning on the counter, you stare at the moon, your arms tense as you think about what you want to say. You want to tell him a lot of shit, but instead you try to keep things as least confrontational as possible. _

"_In case you haven't noticed, I'm taller than you now. I'll just sleep on the couch," you reason, hoping that he'll by it. _

_You continue to stare out the window and sigh in relief when you hear him walk down the hallway and into his room. When the door shuts you walk back into the living room, turn off the TV and lie down on the couch._

Damn, you wish you had your pillow last night. Your neck hurts something awful.

Getting up and rubbing the back of your neck, you walk into the kitchen where Angela is cooking and your stepdad is reading the paper. You haven't seen him in a while – usually he's out late and sleeps during the days that he doesn't have work. In fact, you barely remember seeing him during the two months that you were home between the reformatory and the pen.

You take a seat at the table across from him and he doesn't move a muscle. He's expressed his dislike for you several times – and you've expressed your dislike back to him – but since he's ignoring you, you don't think about starting a bloody brawl this morning.

He flips another page and then closes the newspaper. Giving you a small glare, he stands up with the paper and walks out of the kitchen and back into your parents room.

A plate of eggs appears before you like magic. But it's Angela, who won't meet your eyes. Instead, she turns back around and busies herself with the stove. Not one to turn down a home-cooked meal - even though you can barely call this place home – you take a bite.

"Holy shit."

Angela turns around and looks at you. "What? Is something wrong?" she asks.

"These are fucking delicious. When did you learn how to cook like this?" you ask. It's true - these are the best eggs you've ever tasted in your entire life.

Angela gives you a small smile. "Home Ec." She pauses. "Usually Jimmy eats them in the mornings, so I've gotten used to cooking them. Did you want something else?"

You swallow and take a sip from the glass of milk. "When did you get married?"

She doesn't answer you for a few moments. Finally, she puts down the spatula and turns around to look at you. "About five months ago. We had been dating for a few weeks before then. Nothing serious -"

You raise your eyebrows. "Nothing serious? Sure."

A look of hurt crosses her face. "Curly," she says softly. "Please don't. I've already been through the ringer with Tim."

You stay silent. "These really are good eggs, though."

She gives a small laugh. "Thanks."

At that moment, Tim walks in. He gives you a small glance before grabbing the seat next to you. "Hey, Curly, you gotta be free tonight."

You swallow the last of your eggs. "For what?"

"Gang business. Seven at Bucks. You need a ride?"

You shake your head. "Nah." You stand up to go. It's frustrating to just be in the same room as him, and already you're itching to go somewhere else.

"Where ya goin'?" Tim asks as you head out the door.

You don't bother to respond.

**OOOOO**

You show up at Bucks a little after seven. It's a Friday night so the bar is reasonably packed and there are couples in the booths and on the dance floor. You make your way towards the bar where Buck is serving drinks to some kids who look your age.

"Buck," you call. He looks over and does a double take.

"Little Shepard?" He asks. You cringe. Being called 'Little Shepard' is an insult, especially since you're now bigger than Tim. You feel like you carried more respect in the big house than in the real world.

"Where's Tim?" you ask calmly. He nods his head towards the pool room. Without thanking him, you make your way through the crowd and open the door.

The room is crowded. There are a few new faces along with a few old ones. It's a dim room with only a small light above the pool table.

"You're late," Tim says gruffly.

"I was busy," you respond. In truth, you weren't. You had spent most of the day driving around and checking out the city. You had eaten a burger from the Dairy Queen and grabbed a matinee at the movie theater. You didn't speed as you drove your way to Bucks – as far as you were concerned, the gang stuff wasn't anything important.

"What's going on?" you ask. You spot Jimmy in the group of fifteen or so boys. His nose is swollen and he had a black eye. You see him gulp when you catch his gaze. He's afraid of you.

"We were waiting for you." He looks around. "All right, now listen. We're going to do another job Friday night. I want y'all to meet me at the lot at six. Understand?"

Everyone in the room nods their heads. But you don't. You're not exactly sure what's going on here. It's like you started a book halfway through.

"What's going on?" you ask. "What type of job?"

"Drag racing. After you got put away we took care of the Brumly Boys. They ain't gonna double cross us again."

You give Tim a slight glare. "And how do you know that?"

"Trust me, Curly."

"I did that last time. Didn't work out so well for me."

He glares back. Tension is in the air and the rest of the boys are silent. "Just do it," he finally says.

You calmly walk back towards the door and yank it open. Pushing your way through the crowd you walk to the front door, swiping a beer off the bar counter on your way.

The air outside is fresh. You easily twist off the top and take a large gulp. After a few moments you hear the front door open and close again and you turn around to face Tim.

He grabs the bottle from your grasp and throws it across the lot. Grasping your shirt, he pushes you up against the stone wall. "What the fuck was that?" he hisses.

You simply glare at him. You don't understand how he can't see why this bothers you. It's like he thinks that you are just a mindless robot who can't think for himself at all.

"Don't you ever fucking do that again, you hear me?"

"What do you want me to do, huh?" you ask. "Just take orders and not question why?"

"That's your fuckin' job," he answers. "Look, I've been dealing with your girly shit ever since I picked you up yesterday. Now you're going to quit it and listen. We need you Friday, and you're going to be there whether you like it or not."

"And what if I decide to not show up?"

He floors you with a punch to the face. You see white for a few seconds before your haziness clears. If you hadn't been up against the wall then you would have been on the ground.

His hand reaches out and grabs your chin and pulls it really close. "Then that was just the beginning. Just because you're second in command doesn't mean that you can be late, question my orders and talk back to me, ya understand?"

It's not the right place or time for a brawl, so you refrain from letting out your anger. When he lets go, you stare after him as he makes his way back up the stairs and into the bar.

Cursing to yourself, you get into your car and drive home.

You know what you're going to be doing on Friday night.


	21. Crashing Down

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders.**

**A/N: This is my favorite chapter! I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

**June 1968**

It's Friday night.

And you're at home.

Deliberately ignoring Tim's orders.

You watch the smoke from your cigarette float above your head in a swirl that just seems to sit in the air. It shimmers in the bright light from the bulb that burns white spots into your eyes. You are lying on the couch in a daze, the cigarette dangling between your pointer and middle fingers and the other hand resting lightly on your stomach. You aren't really thinking, after all the night is young -

"Curly!"

The door slams open and you sit up in a rush, the cigarette dropping out of your hands and onto the old couch.

"Shit, Tim. Give me a lil notice, will ya?" You scramble to pick up your cigarette before Tim realizes that you could have just burnt the house down. It can be another thing for him to yell at you for, even though he has been finding all sorts of reasons to do that lately.

"Fuck, man," you curse, as you realize that you grabbed the lit end, and in the process burned the tips of your finger. Your skin is white where it touched the smoldering stick, and it burns so bad that the pain is cold like ice.

A hand appears out of nowhere and grabs the cigarette, burning end and all and chucks it out the open window, where a cold breeze fills the empty silence. You remember that Tim is in the room, and you stare into his hard, blue eyes.

"Where were you tonight?" His voice is full of anger.

You were supposed to meet Tim and some other boys of the gang at the drag races to help sabotage some more cars for another fixed race. But you remembered what happened last time and instead stayed at home. _Fuck you, Tim_

Your silence creates tension in the air and you can feel his stare upon you.

"You weren't there, so we couldn't finish all of the cars, asshole." He pounds the blame into your head, his glare creating lines in his forehead.

You shrug, because you can't really think of anything to reply to what he is saying. So you just sit on the couch, your eyes on the ground as he continues to berate you for your stupidity.

"You're lucky we managed to pull off a win. Do you know how much we would have lost? You dumbass, I pay for all of your shit and you don't even bother to pull your own weight -"

You furrow your eyebrows, anger starting to simmer in your blood. He pays for your shit? Who just spent a year in the state prison for a crime you didn't commit? You aren't dependent on Tim at all! If anything, he's dependent on you.

"You're a fuckin' little shit, Curly. You can't even remember one fuckin' order -"

"You can't order me around," you mumble, staring hard at the carpet. Your fists are clenched, and your knuckles are white. You struggle to breathe deep, even breaths.

Tim stops. You watch his boots take a step closer to you. You don't look up, but you can feel his gaze just radiating upon you from above.

"What did you say Curly?"

He says it with authority, but as his brother, you can hear the softness in his voice when he says your name. You know he wants you to deny what you just said. To take a smack on the head for being stupid, and get on with your life.

You remain silent. You aren't sure if you want to fight this battle or if you want to wait it out. Your mind is torn in two pieces, one side is telling you to submit and say you're sorry. To pretend like Tim is the brother that you thought he was before you went to the reformatory. Before you heard the pounding of the springs of the mattress from the cell above, before you witnessed your roommate die, before you spent three straight weeks in solitary confinement.

Before you felt what it was really like to be alone. Before you made friends with convicts who murdered other people and laughed about it. Before you really learned how to read and decided that being Tim's follower wasn't for you anymore.

But everything has just changed too much.

His boots take one more step forward. If he walked any closer, he would literally be standing on top of you.

"What did you say, Curly?"

This time he's agitated. You're already in hot water because you spoke of insubordination in the first place. Now the water is getting hotter because you haven't answered him back.

It's burning, you can't breathe, and the burn on your finger feels like nothing compared to the conflicting emotions that rage inside of you right now.

Tim's breathing is getting heavier, he's getting even more pissed off and you decide once and for all that it's time that you stood up for yourself.

"I asked you a quest -" He cuts short when you stand up. Before you went into the pen you looked up to him like he was Superman. You remember craning your neck to attempt to look into his dark blue eyes to try to understand what gears were turning, and what plans were being thought up. Back then he was your God and Jesus. He was your father figure and savior, and it was like he could do no wrong.

Now you stand barely an inch taller. To anyone else it would have been an unnoticeable difference, but to you it's like a sign from the apocalypse, a sign that says that you can win.

"I ain't a kid no more, Tim," you say, narrowing your eyes into his. "Don't order me around like one."

Tim scoffs. "You ain't a kid no more, my ass. You will always be a kid, 'cause you can't live without me. You're always gonna need me to clean up your shit, just like now."

"No way," you hiss. "I don't need your help. What happened a year ago? Huh, Tim? Who told me to shut up and to keep that money?"

Tim laughs. It's a deep throaty laugh, but it doesn't remind you of Santa Clause from the mall. It reminds you of those movies where the mafia boss laughs before he murders the innocent victim without warning.

"I did. And everything worked out fine, didn't it?"

"Fine? I spent a fuckin' year in Oklahoma City!" You feel anger riveting through your bones and your hands tremble at your sides.

"Better one year for you then five years for me." His voice is cold, void of any emotional attachment to your punishment. You finally realize that the Tim who told you to get cleaned up after you had gotten jumped wasn't the same Tim as the one who stands before you now. You realize that both of you have changed. You realize that now - instead of you needing Tim - Tim needs you. Your resentment towards Tim that has been growing explodes, and the world goes deathly quiet as you punch Tim in the face.

You've gained some muscle, and his head whiplashes because he wasn't expecting it at all. He freezes, caught in surprise before he turns around and punches you so hard in the chest that you stumble backwards into the TV.

The TV falls back and you land on top of it, the knobs digging into your back. As you try to shake the daze, his hand grabs your shirt and slams your back against the wall. You see his fist in the air, poised to come down upon you like lightening in the middle of a thunderstorm. Your neck twist violently as you accept the blow, but you keep your eyes open, trained on Tim, as he looks at you with blue eyes as cold as ice.

Even though it's barely there, you don't miss the measure of surprise etched in his face. He obviously didn't think that you had the balls to take him one on one. But now you do. And you feel like you've already won.

You smirk. Grasping his shoulders you knee him in the groin. His hand lets go of your shirt as he groans. One punch, then another. He's losing ground and is in pain but you don't feel bad at all.

Another punch hits him in the stomach and he falls down. Just as you are ready to claim some sort of victory he grabs your leg and you fall down on top of him.

Once again on equal levels, he takes advantage and starts throwing punches. By instinct, you grab a handful of his hair and pull hard. His fist is hitting you in the face over and over again, but you can't feel a thing because you have blocked off almost every nerve in your body.

"You fuckin'," he pants. "Shit, fuck!" His teeth are clenched in pain from his hair. You know from experience that having your hair pulled out really hurts. Even though it's a sissy way to fight, you still do it because it might be the only way you survive this battle.

Your world flips upside down, literally, as Tim gains the upper hand and rolls over, pinning you beneath him. He slugs a punch across your face and your head whiplashes. You flail your fisted hands around, feeling nothing but air, and then you feel another powerful punch to your face. You cough, trying to spit the blood that is starting to accumulate in your throat. Your face feels wet and sticky and you can't breathe out of your nose.

You blink wildly; attempting to see in the haze of the room as the world spins so fast you wonder how time can appear to go so slow. In a moment of clarity, you see Tim holding an empty beer bottle in the air_. I was so fucking close_, you think as a blur comes crashing down upon your head.

It's blinding; you see black, white, yellow and red. Colors dance before your eyes like a kaleidoscope that won't stop spinning. You can't feel your hands or your feet. Only your heart racing to a beating drum that echoes in the background, gaining speed as though it's the last time it will ever be played again.

The pain slowly subsides and when you return to reality, your tongue is dry like you've just feasted on stale crackers.

You cough violently and slightly open your eyes. He's still sitting on top of you, but he's breathing hard. The now broken bottle is lying abandoned on the bloodstained carpet beside you. The throbbing in your head makes you deaf, but you see Tim mutter a few curses under his breath, obviously tired. You have one more chance, just one more. You put all of your will power together and grab the bottle's neck with your left hand.

With your right hand you reach up – Tim is shocked – and push him onto his back so that the tables are turned. The sharp edges of the bottle are now resting on his neck and he is staring up at you in disbelief. He didn't even see it coming.

You try to laugh, but spits of blood just fly out of your mouth. You swallow, wincing at the copper taste, but keep your position. Tears are sitting in your eyes because your muscles are screaming in pain. Your hand is holding Tim down, but it's also holding you up. Every time you breathe you feel like your chest is on fire. You press the bottle deeper into Tim's neck and a little blood appears. His face tightens, but he still looks at you in defiance.

"Curly!"

It's Angela's voice. You don't look over at her – you wouldn't dare – so that you don't have to see her face. Shocked, worried, scared. You're afraid of her reaction.

"Curly. Stop!"

"Go away, Angela."

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Don't curse, Angel."

"Get off him, Curly! Now!" There is a tremor in her voice, and she sounds like she is about to cry.

There is blood flowing from your nose and dripping out of your mouth. The entire sight must be pretty grisly, you realize, and you lessen your grip on the bottle.

"Curly," she pleads in a weak voice. It's a voice that doesn't sound like Angela at all. "Stop."

You're torn between deciding what to do with Tim or to obey Angela. Finally you sit upright, and toss the bottle to the side. But before Tim can move, you punch him in the center of his face. His nose cracks under your bruised knuckles.

Angela gives a hitched sob, but you stand up and walk towards the door. You hear a small groan from Tim but you don't look back. You don't care about him. The only reason why you stopped was because of Angela. If it weren't for her …

"Tim, what are you doing?" Angela asks. "Curly!"

Your hand is frozen on the doorknob but you don't turn it. Instead, you look over your shoulder. Tim is now standing, one hand cradling his nose and the other on the back of the couch, holding himself up. Angela is immobile, clearly torn. She doesn't know whom to help so you decide for her.

"Nevermind, Angela."

Your hand turns the knob and pulls open the door. A gust of cold wind blows into the room and a few flakes of snow attach to your skin.

"You can't leave." She rushes over, grabbing your arm. "You're hurt, let me help you."

"Don't bother, Angel." Tim's voice is the coldest you've ever heard it. "Let that piece of shit die in the cold."

Angela gasps. "Tim! He's your brother!"

"Not anymore." If looks could kill you would be dead ten times over. But it doesn't bother you anymore. It's hard to believe that just a year ago you thought he was the most important person in your life.

Once he turns and walks out of your sight, you turn to Angela.

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding all over the place. Please, just let me clean you up. I can call someone – like Sam – he can come and get you -"

"Shut it, Angel." It's harsh, but you are desperate.

"Curly, you need help," she repeats frantically. But you don't need her anymore. Just like you don't need Tim. You are your own rock; your own source of need, love and help.

Knowing that words are useless, you don't answer her. Instead you take a step outside and slam the door in her face. But not before you see a tear run down her cheek.

You feel bad, but it's necessary.

First, you instinctively reach up to touch the sensitive spot where your head is pounding. When you pull away your hand is completely covered in red and your sight starts to blur. But you can't go back inside so you just keep walking.

You aren't wearing a jacket and your shoes are already soaked from the light blanket of snow on the ground. In a daze, you think about how it is uncommon for so much snow in Tulsa. You feel drunk, stumbling and blinking wildly.

"Fuck," you mutter, reaching for your head again. A wave of bile makes it's way up your throat and you turn to the side to hurl into the bushes. It's red and you struggle to breathe for a moment. Hands on your knees you fight to keep yourself standing upright. When you feel able to move without throwing up again, you trudge on.

It feels like each step takes a million years. Yet, the world looks like it is standing still.

You can't feel your fingers or your toes. You can feel your hair freezing in the snow and your body twitching in a desperate attempt to restore your body heat. You think about the fight, in which the memory has suddenly become clear as crystal glass, with each move carefully recorded as though it were a movie.

You won. You had Tim on his back and a broken bottle at his throat. You fucking won.

"Yes," you hiss to no one but yourself. "I fucking won!" You have never felt this good, even though your head is split open, your nose is broken and blood is running down your face.

"Curly?"

You look up. It's Ponyboy. You smile weakly and try to wave, but the edges of your vision have become cloudy and you can barely stand up straight.

"Hey, hey, hey, Ponyboy." You try laugh, but blood catches in your throat and you fall forward on your hands and knees.

"Shit." Ponyboy rushes towards you. "What happened, Curly? Did you get jumped?"

"Jumped?" Why in the hell would he think that you got jumped? "The fuck are you thinkin', Curtis? I ain't in bad shape." You can't be in bad shape. You just showed Tim who's boss. You're on top of the fucking world.

"The hell you are. You've got blood everywhere. C'mon, I'll help you."

"No." You push away his hands. "I don't need no help. I don't need anyone's help." You do okay on your own. You push yourself up, leaving two bloody handprints in the snow. After all, you beat Tim on your own, right? "I'm just gonna leave now."

"No, wait. At least spend the night - it's cold outside, y'know? Darry's cooking chicken."

You're starting to get pissed that he won't leave you alone. "Look, Ponyboy," you say pointedly. "I don't need your fuckin' charity!" You try to shove him – if you can beat Tim then Ponyboy should be a cinch – but you used the last of any strength you had against Tim.

"I'll beat the shit outta you tomorrow, Curtis. I need to get some strength." Too many thoughts are flowing through your wounded head and you can't think straight anymore. You look up and realize that you're at Ponyboy's house.

"The hell? How did I get here?" you ask out loud.

"I dunno. I was smoking and suddenly you come up the walk talking about how you won."

You smile. That's right. You fucking won. "Yeah, man, I won. Take that."

"Pony!" A shout comes from inside the house. Both of you look at the door. A few seconds after the call Ponyboy's oldest brother Darry walks out.

"What the hell is going on here? Ponyboy, is he drunk?"

Ponyboy looks at you curiously. "I'm not fucking drunk. Shit." You reach up to touch your head again, but Pony's hand intercepts it.

"Don't touch it. Are you drunk, Curly?"

"Whatever he is, he's not stable. Let me call Tim and he can take care of it." That makes you mad. You push Ponyboy away and start walking up to Darry. For some reason you think that if you can beat Tim then you can beat Darry.

"You want to say that again, big guy?" You ask. Darry suddenly looks pissed as hell and takes a step towards you. You have to admit, you're starting to reconsider your decision to take him on now.

"I don't care if you're beat to hell and back, Shepard. I'll teach you a lesson regardless."

"Darry, wait." Ponyboy gets in the middle and turns to you. "Who did you get in a fight with, Curly?"

You look at him. Isn't the answer obvious? "Tim."

Ponyboy's face is filled with shock. "He did this to you?"

"What did he do? I'm fine, man. You should see him." He still doesn't believe you. You can see it in his face. "I mean it Pony. I showed him who's boss. I'm my own boss now; Tim can't order me around no more."

"Well … let's have a congratulatory dinner then," Pony suggests. You smirk.

"Hell yeah, Curtis." You are so happy someone has realized that you don't need Tim, that you ignore him pulling your arm over his shoulder. He leads you up the steps while you tell him all about how you showed Tim how you can take care of yourself.

"And then, I was sittin' on him. I had this bottle, man. The same fucking bottle he used on me. And he was just lying there. I beat him, man. I fuckin' kicked his ass."

"Yeah, I bet you did." Ponyboy agrees but you can tell that he doesn't share your enthusiasm. He leads you to the couch and pushes you down.

"What about my celebratory dinner?" you ask, even though you probably couldn't even stomach soup in your state.

"It's not done yet. Why don't you just take a rest? I'll wake you up when it's all ready."

"Yeah, yeah." You know he's lying and you plan to stay up. But the couch is so comfortable that the minute you sit down your eyes start to close. "Make sure to wake me up. Wouldn't want to miss that dinner, ya know?"

"Sure thing, Curly."

Your eyelids flutter and you fight unconsciousness. Before you are pulled under, you hear Darry and Ponyboy talking in hushed tones. But in the haze clouding your head there is one clear thought.

You fucking won.


	22. Rising Sun

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders.**

**A/N: I'm so thankful from the response last chapter! I hope you guys enjoy this one! Dedications to somebluedecember, and one more chapter to go!  
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* * *

June 1968**

You feel a cool cloth against your forehead and you want to open your eyes to see who bothered to pull you out of the snow, but at the same time you just feel so damn comfortable that for a second you wish the person would just leave you alone so that you could rest in peace.

The cloth runs across the other side of your face and it touches a sensitive spot, causing an involuntarily flinch.

"Curly?"

It's a guy's voice, and you scan your memories to determine who it is.

"Curly?"

Another voice, a girl's voice. It takes you a few minutes to determine that it's Angela, and you stir, attempting to open your eyes. Gently, you take in the black blur that slowly defines itself as your sister. Her face is filled with worry - much preferred to the pity that you expected from her.

"Angel." You sigh. "Where-?"

"Shhh." She silences you, cupping your cheek with her hand. "You're at the Curtis'. Just rest, okay?"

You slightly turn your head to the other person near the couch that you are lying on. It's Ponyboy, and you can't place the look on his face. It looks like pity, but you know that he would never pity you. It seems more puzzled, as if he hasn't got a clue to why you are lying on his couch, beat-up like you tried to take the entire world by yourself.

Your eyes furrow. You look behind them and see a box full of your clothes and some of the few possessions that you have to your name. You see the tattered copy of the samurai book lying on top, and you think about how you got from your front yard to Ponyboy's couch. The last twenty-four hours are as clear as day in your memory, but it still feels like a dream with hazy edges.

"Do me a favor, Angel?" you ask.

Her face softens. "What, Curly?"

"Get me that book, will ya?" you nod to the small book lying on your possessions.

She looks over, sees the tattered copy, and gives you one more look before getting off of the couch to grab it. She studies the front page for a moment, eyes furrowing over the cover before handing it back to you.

"Thanks," you mumble, before fingering the frayed corner of the book.

Angela mumbles a 'welcome,' in return, but doesn't say anything else. The phone rings, and someone picks it up. After a few minutes Ponyboy's oldest brother comes into the room.

"Angela, Tim says he wants you back home before it gets dark. You need a ride?" he asks.

"No, thank you," Angela says politely. She stands up. "Thanks for allowing Curly to stay here," she tells him. You furrow your eyebrows in frustration, staring intently at the book.

You feel Darry's gaze for a moment before he responds. "No problem," he replies. Then he sucks in his breath. "It's just," he pauses. "The social workers are coming on Thursday, though. Do you know if Tim will let -"

"No," you say loudly. The atmosphere of the room suddenly becomes very tense as you continue to stare at the book. "Tim won't let me back." You look up at the Darry. "Don't worry, I'll be out by this afternoon."

"I mean, you can stay another day, Curly, it's no big deal," Darry tries to explain. "I just need the house on Thursday for when the social workers come. That's all."

You shake your head. "No, I gotta get out."

"Okay," Darry says slowly. "If you need a place to stay though, that couch is open."

"Thanks." You nod, even though you know that you won't be using this couch ever again.

Angela has been watching this exchange the whole time, and for a minute you had forgotten that she was there. "I'll be back tomorrow, Curly," she says softly before moving to leave out the door.

You gently fall back against the arm of the couch and close your eyes. There is a pounding in your head and it sounds like someone is banging a drum next to your ear. Eventually, the sound dissipates and you fall into a fitful sleep.

**OOOOO**

You wake up in the morning with the sun peering in your eyes. You bring your arm up to block the sunshine, and attempt to warm yourself up by curling into a ball. Your headache is still hammering in your head, but it's not nearly as loud as it was the night before. The cut on your head from where Tim hit you with a bottle feels fresh, and you bring up your hand and gingerly touch the wound. It stings when you make contact with it, and you feel a slight wetness on your fingertips. Bringing your hand back down, you see the edges of your fingers are now red, and you blink wildly when a haze dances over your vision.

The couch creaks as you push yourself up, making your way to the bathroom. There, you take a look in the mirror and are taken aback by what you see.

At first, you didn't imagine that the cut would be that big. You've seen people get slashed at with beer bottles and switch knives before, but you've only seen a gash like this once. It starts at your temple, and jaggedly moves down your face. It stops near your jaw line, three inches long.

It's a painful red color, and the edges of the skin surrounding the cut are pink. The wound and the skin around it are raised and moist. It's a mixture of blood, sweat and pus, and the sickly sight of the gash makes your stomach turn.

You quickly wet the end of your t-shirt and bring it up to your face, dabbing delicately at the wound. After it's been cleaned to your satisfaction, you wash your hands, making sure to scrub the blood off the edge of your fingertips.

The door swings open to the middle brother who is surprised to see you and you are to see him. "Curly!" Sodapop says in shock. "Didn't think you'd be up this early."

"What time is it?" you ask while Sodapop moves around to get a better look at the gash.

"Seven o'clock. I work at eight so I gotta take a shower and get ready. Man, that is one tough cut. You done here?"

He switches topics so fast you can't keep up. Nodding your head, you agree to whatever he says and make your way outside and into the living room where Darry is making breakfast.

"Breakfast is almost ready, Curly," Darry says.

"S'okay," you reply. "I'm about to get going anyway."

"Hell no, little man," the oldest Curtis brother says. He walks in, his arms crossed across his chest as if he is daring you to say no and walk outside the door. "You haven't eaten since whenever you last ate yesterday. I'm not letting you go out in the streets on an empty stomach. Plus, you look sick."

If it weren't for the fact that he looks like he could have gone to the Olympics for wrestling, you would have said, 'sure, mom,' and walked out the door anyway. But he's right - you feel sick and you haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon, so you reluctantly follow Darry into the kitchen and sit down at the small table.

He heads into the hallway where all of the rooms are and you hear "Ponyboy, get up!" before he returns. He goes up to the stove, grabs a plate and starts putting food on it. "Curly, you want chocolate milk or coffee?" he asks.

"Umm," you pause. "Chocolate milk is fine," you finally reply. You touch the cut on the side of your head one more time, wincing at the pain.

"Here ya go," Darry sets a plate of eggs and toast in front of you, with a glass of chocolate milk. At that moment, a disheveled Ponyboy walks in, scratching his head as he yawns deeply.

"Mornin'," he says sleepily.

"Morning!" Sodapop's voice carries as the door to the bathroom opens. "Darry, you see my DX shirt?"

"Have you looked in your closet? I did laundry yesterday," Darry responds as a Sodapop wearing only jeans runs past the kitchen and down the hallway.

"Hey, Curly," Ponyboy smiles. He sits down at the table across from you and thanks his older brother when he is given a plate of eggs and toast and a glass of chocolate milk. At that moment Sodapop's voice ring through the house once again.

"Are you sure, Darry? I don't see it in here!"

"Jesus Christ." Darry shakes his head and leaves to help Soda.

"So, uh," Ponyboy stutters. "How's your head?" he asks.

You look up. "It's fine," you reply, once again cautiously reaching up to touch the sensitive skin.

"You sure?" he asks again. "I mean, I'm sure Darry or someone can clean it up for you if ya like," Ponyboy presses. "No disrespect man, but it don't look pretty."

At that moment one of Sodapop's friends walks in, the screen door slamming as he makes his way into the kitchen.

"Mornin' Steve," Ponyboy greets him.

"Mornin', kid. Where's Soda?"

"Here!" the middle brother runs in and grabs a plate, throwing on some food.

"Where was your shirt, Soda?" Ponyboy asked.

Sodapop grins. "Closet," he says, before taking a bite of his toast.

"Yeah, your closet, where I put it yesterday." Darry walks back in, shaking his head. He points his finger at Ponyboy. "Y'all are going to be cleaning your room today when you get home from school, and you," he moves his finger so that it points at Sodapop, "get home from work. And you ain't leaving till it's all cleaned up."

"Aw, Darry, c'mon! The game is tonight and Steve and I were going to get together with Two-Bit and head on over. It starts at seven and I get off of work at 5:30," Sodapop griped.

"Well, clean extra fast," he looks at you. "You need a ride anywhere, Curly?"

You shake your head. "Nah, I'm good."

Darry nods in understanding. "Okay, you need anything, give us a call. And I mean it, kid." He stops. "If you want, I can stop by your house later today and talk to Tim -"

"No," you say quickly. "Don't. I got it."

"Whoah!" Steve says in shock. "What happened to your face?"

You grimace. You wish no one would notice the three-inch gash, but it seems to be the topic of choice today. "Nothing," you respond.

"Don't look like nothing to me," Steve smirks. "Looks like someone gave you a scar to match Tim's."

The room goes deadly silent as you stir your eggs around on the plate.

"Anything, Curly," Darry repeats before pulling Soda along to the door by his arm and pointing the way for Steve, who still hasn't moved.

"Who did it?" Steve asks.

"Steve," Darry says warningly.

"Tim," you say finally, hoping to get the entire conversation over with so that you can get back to eating, even though you haven't really eaten much to begin with.

Steve seems to take that in stride, and leaves with Darry and Sodapop without saying another word.

"I can help you -" Ponyboy starts.

"Don't," you refuse. You don't want anyone's pity or their help.

Ponyboy sighs. "At least let me disinfect it. It already looks like it's festering."

You feel the gash again, and it's already moist from the pus leaking out. "Fine," you stand up. "But we gotta do this now; I wanna get out before Angela comes over."

**OOOOO**

You are sitting on the edge of the tub while Ponyboy gathers the first-aid materials from the disorganized cabinet under the sink. He sets a couple gauze pads and the hydrogen peroxide on the table, along with a pair of tweezers.

First, he takes the tweezers and holds it up to the cut. "There's some bigger pieces of dirt in here, so I'm going to try to get them out first," Ponyboy explains as he pokes away, you flinching every time the tweezers touch the open skin.

He takes one of the towels hanging from the rack and wets the ends of it before bringing it to your face. He gently dabs at the area, and you try your hardest not to wince as he hits several tender spots. Next he uses a gauze pad soaked in peroxide and holds it in his hand. He opens his mouth to say something, but you manage to talk first.

"I know it's gonna hurt, Curtis. I've done this before," you tell him.

He touches the wound with the gauze pad and you flinch from the sudden pain. Ponyboy slowly dabs at the gash, trying to be as gentle as possible even though he knows how much it hurts.

After a minute he steps back, but your head still stings from the peroxide. You can hear a faint hissing and bubbling as the peroxide does its magic, and you close your eyes to ward off the pain.

Once again, you flinch, this time out of sudden shock, when the towel touches the sensitive skin. After the skin is dry again, he steps back. "There we go." He takes the towel and throws it into the sink. He holds out a hand, which you decide to take and he helps you stand up.

"Where you gonna go now?" he asks.

"Dunno," you respond. You make your way to the couch and gather your jacket and the book. You look at your box of stuff sitting near the couch but make no movement to gather your belongings.

"You gonna take those with you?" Ponyboy asks.

"Nah, you take them." You pat your pockets for a pack of cigarettes. "Shit," you curse when you come up empty-handed.

"Here," Ponyboy hands one to you. The two of you walk outside to where the sun is starting to shine bright and warm up the air. You light up and suck in deeply.

The two of you quietly finish your cigarettes while you admire the morning light. When you finish, you stub out your smoke and turn to Ponyboy, holding out a hand.

"Thanks, Curtis," you say.

His face has a look of confusion, but he shakes your hand anyway. "No problem, Curly. Wait a second though, will ya?"

You agree and wait on the porch while he rushes inside to grab something. You don't know what he's looking for but you wish you had another smoke to pass the time.

When he comes back out he's holding a book. And it's thick as hell. It's worn and tattered but he's holding it like it's his last lifeline or something. Then he holds it out to you.

"Here," he says. You look at the front cover.

_Gone With The Wind_

"Wasn't this a movie or something?" you ask.

"Yeah, the book's better though. And I think you would enjoy it."

"Jesus," you mutter. The book is almost a thousand pages long. "You read this thing a lot?"

"That was -" He cuts off. "That was Johnny's book. I think you deserve it now, though."

Suddenly the book is heavier than before. This couldn't have been an easy thing for Ponyboy to give up, and you reach into your jacket pocket and pull out the tattered samurai book.

"Here," you say, offering it to him.

"Oh no." He backs up. "That's your book."

You take a step forward, insistent. "Think of it as something to remember me by."

After a few moments, he relents and takes the book. "Thanks, Curly."

You nod, turn around and walk down the steps, using the railing as a guide. Standing in the middle of the yard, you look up at the bright sunshine and smile.


	23. Beginning Journey

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders**

**A/N: Huge deds and thanks to somebluedecember for all of her help. **

******This story is being posted as part of "Good Fic Day," an effort to raise the quality of writing here. We hope to encourage more writers to improve the quality of their own fan fiction - spell check, grammar check, keep the gang in character, outline, plot and don't use Mary Sues. Good fan fiction requires effort, and we would like to encourage other writers to rise to the challenge of producing better fan fiction, not only for our readers, but for S.E. Hinton, who created the wonderful book we are trying to honor.**  


* * *

**June 1968**

The day passes by quickly, but you don't do anything productive. You walk around, clutching your jacket to your body to keep some warmth as the November chill starts to blow by. The smokes that you stole from the corner gas station are all gone by five o'clock and your stomach is rumbling, begging for some food. You contemplate grabbing a bag of chips or something from a mom and pop grocery store, but you know that won't settle anything, so for now you ignore any signs of hunger from your body.

Your feet keep walking, and eventually you find yourself under a bridge that has been vandalized by nearly every gang in Tulsa. The words 'River Kings' are written in a solid black while orange letters spell out tigers. Though whoever wrote 'Tigers' obviously hadn't been in school for long because the word is missing the 'e'.

A bench with it's paint peeling off is the only place where you can sit down, so you take a seat, hoping that you aren't taking some hobo's bed.

The sun has already set, but the bottom of the horizon still has a purplish glow to it. You stare at the edge of the world and wonder what is on the other side.

You know that by now Angela would have stopped by the Curtis' house only to find that you have already left. You hope that she doesn't get too mad at you, but you needed to get out and not be dependent on anyone anymore. She's probably searching the streets right now looking for you.

The thought of Angela out looking for you makes you sick. You wish that she would just leave you alone for once. Ever since you had seen her in the reformatory when she told you that Dallas Winston had died, her care for you has increased tenfold, and it made you feel like a ten-year-old kid instead of the hood that you are. Ever since about a year ago, she would cry over any scratch that you received, and you wonder what really made her change.

Was it because Dallas Winston had died? But you aren't Dallas Winston, not in any shape or form, and Angela knows that. Angela hadn't even been close to Dallas; she had only known him through Tim.

Tim. You still see him standing in the background with his arms crossed across his chest like he owned you and had punished you like he saw fit. His smoldering gaze upon you said that you weren't even worth his time anymore and that you had to get out. The way his scar tensed as he glared displayed his hatred for you.

You reach up to touch your new battle wound on your face. Steve's outburst earlier had thrown an ironic thought into your head. You remember on the last day of your stay at the reformatory and how you had stared into the mirror, thinking about how much you had grown and how you looked so much like Tim now except for his scar. It's ironic to think that the very person who would give you a scar to match Tim's would be Tim himself.

Your older brother had always watched out for you; taking care of you when you got jumped by the River Kings before your gang days, pulling off other guys in rumbles while he fought two other people at the same time, reaching to grab the cereal for you before school when you couldn't reach the top cabinet.

But it seems that recently you had started going off on your own more. You remember going into the courthouse and seeing Tim's look like he had better things to do. Then, in the reformatory, when you were shoved in solitary confinement, how you would cry for Tim, wishing that he was there. You remember being angry when he wouldn't respond to you after you have saved Angela from her mess of a boyfriend. You remember standing up to him when he expected you to admit that you are a dumbass, when he told you that you were going to end up just like Dallas…

**OOOOO**

The first thing you realize when you wake up is that you are freezing. The cold air is biting your skin and your teeth are chattering in an attempt to get warm. You hear a faint voice, but it takes you a moment to understand what it is saying.

"Shepard."

Realizing it's your name, you look up and grin at the person standing in front of you. It's Dennis from the reformatory and you manage to give a weak 'hey' in reply before sitting up, digging your hands deeper into your pockets to regain some warmth.

"Trying to kill yourself, man? You'll probably get frostbite or some shit. What you doing sleepin' out here on a bench? You tryin' to get knifed?"

Ignoring his lecture, you shake you head. You try to stand up, but your knees and leg muscles are locked in an 'L' position from the cold weather. Dennis reaches over and grabs one of your arms, pulling you to a standing position.

"C'mon, we're goin' to my house," Dennis says, pulling you along. You pat the inside of your jacket to make sure that you have Pony's book with you.

"Thanks, man," you say quietly. As much as you don't want to accept help from anyone, especially after what Tim said, you admit that you need some help otherwise you are going to freeze to death.

Dennis' house is only a few blocks down, but the cold wind means that it takes twice as long to get anywhere, and it's a good twenty minutes later when you finally reach his front porch.

He opens up the door, a blast of warmth blowing out into your face, and beckons you inside. You follow him inside where a little girl about five years old stands near the door, looking at you with confusion. You give her a small smile and look at Dennis.

"That's Nellie." Dennis introduces you to his little sister. "Say hello, Nellie."

"Hi," she says in a tiny voice before running back into the adjacent room, which you guess is the kitchen based on the smells that are coming from the general direction.

"Ma!" Dennis calls as he makes his way in that direction. "We've got 'nother person here for dinner, cool?"

"Of course, honey. Who is it?"

"His name is Curly, I met him earlier this year," Dennis says as he enters the kitchen. You notice how Dennis refrained from saying 'reformatory'.

You follow Dennis into the kitchen where Nellie is now sitting at the table coloring, and a woman wearing a waitress uniform is cooking dinner. She turns around and wipes her hands on her apron before holding one out.

"Hello, I'm Mrs. Robertson, but you can just call me Betty."

"Hello, ma'am." You attempt to use your best manners. "Hope I'm not intruding or nothing."

"Oh no, not at all. I'm making some chicken for dinner, does that sound good?" Betty asks as she turns around and starts scooping some mashed potatoes into a bowl.

"Yeah, of course." Bewildered that someone is making dinner and asking if that was okay with you. At your house nobody even made dinner, let alone asked what you wanted.

"Hey," Dennis starts. "Is it okay if Curly stays the night? The couch is open, right?"

"Sure, sure," Betty says. "If you boys want to give me about ten minutes dinner is almost ready, okay?"

"Sure, ma," Dennis nods and then walks back into the living room. He walks to the couch and points to the crocheted blanket on top. "You can sleep here. I'll get one of my pillows for you to use."

"Yeah," you say, still taken aback at the cleanliness of the house and the welcoming manner of Dennis' mom. "Your mom is really nice," you finally say.

"Yeah, she is. I have it a lot better than most of the boys at the reformatory," Dennis admits, sitting down and lifting his boots on top of the table.

"Why -" You drop off, unsure of how to phrase the question. Luckily, Dennis knows what you are thinking.

"Why do I get in trouble when I come from a good home?" he asks, before answering his own question. "Waitressing doesn't pay for all of the bills," he says with a sad grin.

You then think back to when you first met Dennis Robertson and everything clicks together.

"_Cool, man. Dennis Robertson, possession. You?"_

"You hear about Billy?" Dennis breaks you from your thoughts.

A knot forms in your stomach when Dennis mentions Billy. "Yeah," you admit. "Harvey told me while I was in solitary."

"I heard that you had to spend the rest of your time there. Sorry about that, man. You shouldn't've had to do that. 'Specially when you was only defending your cellmate," Dennis says wistfully.

"S'all right," you say, even though you remember your time in solitary as a period when you wished you had just gone straight to hell.

"What happened to your face?" Dennis asks.

"Full of questions tonight, huh?" You grin, trying to avoid the question.

"Hey," Dennis replies back. "You asked me a question too, so don't get on mah back 'bout it."

"Dinner!" Betty's voice calls through the house, and you are secretly relieved that you don't have to answer Dennis' question. It's something that you don't really want to tell anyone, because deep down it just brings up the fact that you still can't beat your older brother.

Dennis stands up. "C'mon, my ma makes some good chicken."

You follow Dennis back into the kitchen and take the seat across from him at the small round table. Nellie still looks at you with big eyes as she takes bites of her already cut chicken.

"So, Curly," Betty starts. "You go to school?"

The question hits you by surprise. You haven't thought about school for a while now, even though you've read that book nearly five times, each time learning something different from it.

"No ma'am," you say truthfully. "I like to read, though," you admit, wanting to show Betty that you aren't a complete hood, stupid and illiterate. A feeling of pride surges through you as you feel the hard cover of the book through your jacket.

"Really?" Dennis asks. "_Playboys_ don't count," he says with a grin.

"What's a Playboy?" Nellie asks.

"Nothing," Dennis hushes her. "Boring magazines. You don't ever want to read those," he says while giving Curly a wink. "Ow," he says then looks at Betty.

"Dennis." She tries to sound firm but a smile manages to peek past her lips.

While the family starts lightly bickering, you can help but think about your own family. Your mom, who never leaves her room. Your stepfather, who only talks to you when he wants a beer or for you to get out of his seat. Your younger sister who only started paying attention to what you get yourself into after another hood managed to get shot up by the cops. Or your older brother, once your inspiration, now the very person who kicked you out of the house after you tried, for once in your life, to stand up for yourself.

"So, you like to read, Curly?" Betty asks again.

You nod. "Yeah, my friend introduced me to some books, and they're interesting."

"That's good," Betty smiles.

The rest of the dinner goes along naturally - as natural as dinner can be for you. It's the first 'family' dinner you've ever had, and for once you feel okay without your older brother watching over you.

**OOOOO**

It seems like eons ago that you stumbled out of the front yard after Tim had kicked you out the house. The inside is quiet; you know that the rest of the family is probably still sleeping since it's only six o'clock in the morning. The sun hasn't risen yet, but the edges of the horizon are a dark red, indicating that the sun will come up very soon.

Nevertheless, you quietly open up the door and step through the threshold. It's silent and no one is there. You walk into the laundry room where you find your car keys hanging on the same hook as Tim's keys.

Grasping them in your fist, you get ready to head out, but once you walk out of the laundry room you come face to face with Angela. You didn't even hear leave her room.

"Angela," you say, surprised.

"Where were you yesterday?" she asks. "I went over to the Curtis' house but Ponyboy said that you had left early in the morning."

"Look, Angel," you almost plead, begging her to understand. "I don't have a place to go no more. I gotta get out."

"Get out? And go where? Ask Tim, I bet he'll let you stay here if you just say you're sorry -"

"Fuck that, Angela," you spit. You are so angry that she would even offer the suggestion of apologizing to Tim. You don't understand why she, Darry and even Ponyboy have this crazy notion that you should just apologize, or beg to be let back. "I wouldn't stay here even if he apologized to _me_."

"Curly." Her voice sounds so sad. "Don't leave, please."

"I have to go," you say again.

"Please, Curly."

"What's going on, Angel?" Tim suddenly appears behind Angela, his face stony and his eyes cold.

Silence falls over the three of you as you stare at Tim, Tim stares at you, and Angela's eyes dart back and forth as if she's waiting for one of you to attack first.

"What are you doing here?" Tim asks, his voice is completely authoritative, like he is the one who pays the mortgage.

"Getting' my stuff and getting out," you answer with a strong voice, not daring to back down. "You got a problem?"

If possible, Tim's face gets even angrier and he takes a step forward. Angela tries to intervene but he gently blocks her with his hand and takes another heavy step forward.

"You always were a smartass," Tim says, shaking his head. "It would pleasure me to knock you out and throw you out on the front lawn."

You smirk. "Like you could."

He throws a punch. Angela screams but you manage to dodge it. In retaliation you punch him in the face and the stomach and his back hits the wall. You glare at him, as though daring him to try again. You expect him to start another brawl, but instead he just keeps your stare, hate evident in his harsh blue eyes.

You walk past him and out of the laundry room to the front door. Angela's footsteps are behind you but you ignore them.

"Curly!" You turn around.

Her gaze catches yours for a moment. Her eyes are begging you to not leave, but you ignore them. With one last glance, you turn around and walk out the door.

You open the creaky door to your car and get into the seat. Pulling the thick book out of your jacket, you throw it into the front seat, letting your eyes settle on it for a few seconds before you plug the keys into the ignition and turn it. The car lights up and the engine roars. You back down the driveway and onto the street as you see Angela dart out of the house in your peripheral vision.

With no regrets, you press on the gas pedal and speed off into the sunrise.

* * *

**A/N: So, that's it. Thank you so much for all of the reviews. Now, as you can probably tell from the last line, Curly has a whole other story to tell. It's slowly in production at the moment because of time, but hopefully it will be up sometime this summer. If not, by the beginning of the next school year. In the meantime, check out the Tim oneshot that parallels this story (should be coming out within the next two weeks) and anything else that may pop up in the meantime. **

**I hope you hear all your comments, good and bad. Thanks again!**

**K. Nefertiti  
**


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